Rats in the System
by GarrulousGibberish
Summary: No one knows where the virus started. No one knows how to stop it, either. But Sherlock will find a solution. He always does. Or he'd better, because otherwise he's going to be short a flatmate. Zombie AU based off of a LJ prompt. Rating changed due to graphic content. TW: Gore/Violence, Suicidal Thoughts/Actions, Character Death.
1. I: Dawn of the Dead

The apocalypse started on a Wednesday.

No one was entirely sure who the Patient Zero was; every country seemed to have its own. The first reports of people being bitten were recorded in India and China. Consequentially, that's also where the first quarantines were established. The number of people infected was less than a thousand, at the time. Scientists and doctors and religious figureheads debated on the source of the disease, though no one theory was ever established.

The media didn't say anything about its outbreak other than a brief:_ a contagion of unknown origin has been located and quarantined in Mideastern countries, including but not limited to Kazakhstan, India, Mongolia, and China. Law enforcement officials and experts are converging on the subject to bring about a cure for those infected. Until the virus can be neutralized, officials ask that any traveling to these areas be postponed until such a time that there is no longer a threat of contamination._

They were fools.

The next outbreak of the virus appeared where no one had immediately thought to take into consideration. Svalbard, an island away from any direct contact with the infected countries. Ever since the outbreak, airlines and any other forms of travel were greatly reduced, also imposing far more rigid standards of security. The people became agitated, but the government assured them that it was only a precaution. There was no cause for fear. The virus would soon be contained.

But it wasn't.

The panic quickly rose for the entirety of the continent as soon as it began spreading. It extended across oceans. To the Americas, to the Islands. This disease was far worse than anything they could have imagined, anything they could have planned for. The quarantines were useless and the contagion spread faster than a conspiracy plot.

There was no preventing this.

It took little more than a month for all of Europe to be eradicated. Urban areas were like bacteria-infested breeding grounds for the carriers. The disease was carried and transferred in the exchange of bodily fluids. Saliva. Or blood. All it took was being bitten by one of the crazed to be infected. Within minutes upon being bit, the victim would experience one of two results:

1) They would be turned into one of the masses of infected subjects. Or;  
>2) They would be eaten alive.<p>

Either way they were lost.

Many of the survivors decided to end their lives before they were taken from them. Those who remained sometimes thought of them as cowards, but really, they envied them for escaping this hell on their own terms.

Of the remaining there were a few groups: those too fearful to take their own lives, those too stubborn to, those who still had hope that they could outlast this Armageddon, and then those caught somewhere in between. Too scared to be hopeful. Too scared to not be.

The Compound was the title given to the refugee base. Of the five known to the area, The Compound was one of two that had survived the onslaught. A fortified bunker, it housed a few hundred of the uninfected. Of those hundred, nearly a third was trained in the use of firearms and machinery. For protection, nearly every one of those trained carried a small arsenal at their disposal. It is for this reason that they had survived as long as they had. That and the strategic placement of The Compound allowed for a clear advantage on oncoming enemies.

The last attempt had been mere hours ago. It wasn't a large-scale attack, but it was enough to warrant multiple guards at every post. The rotation cycled at three hour intervals, ensuring the vigil of fresh eyes.

And on this particular rotation, this is where John found himself.

This was also where he almost lost himself.


	2. I: Insanitarium

John was not entirely sure it was a good idea to give Sherlock a gun.

It wasn't that he couldn't fire it; he most definitely could.

It wasn't that he was worried that he might injure himself or someone else; after constant practise, he was a damn good shot. Of all the people gallivanting around with firearms in this place, Sherlock was one of the least likely to have a misfire or anything of the sort.

No, the reason why John thought that Sherlock shouldn't be carrying a gun was because of what he was doing right now.

"Would you stop wasting ammunition on those damn things?" John hissed, grip unintentionally tightening around his weapon. "The noise might draw _them_ to us."

There was a sharp crack as Sherlock's gun was discharged. The poor subject: a rat. That was the third one he'd taken aim at tonight. The detective glared at its bloody carcass as if it had personally offended him. He did not say a word.

When they had first come to The Compound with the others, Sherlock had been confronted with an ordeal he had not yet been forced to experience. Grief, on such a grand scale. Not his own, though. Never his own. Even throughout the move, he'd never once seemed different than he would in the pursuit of a criminal. Excited.

That was the main problem, actually.

He'd gotten himself into a quarrel with one of the men who guarded the gate. He'd started trying to organize them into what he considered their only salvation. This was a vast mistake on his part. The man with whom he was debating had just lost a majority of his family. He and his daughter were the only ones left, and he wanted nothing more than to keep her safe.

Sherlock had called him a coward.

The only way, in his opinion, to stop these monsters was to go after them, in order to study them. If a cure was to be made, then what he needed was a subject. A living one. It would be more effective to use their manpower towards achieving something useful, instead of hiding behind a wall. In his exact words, "you are fooling yourselves if you believe that by doing nothing we are protecting ourselves. You may as well string everyone up by the wrists and lead them to the slaughter yourself. It would be doing them a favour." He hadn't specified to which 'them' he was referring, at the time. It didn't much matter.

Sherlock got a bruised jaw that effectively kept his mouth shut from then on. John just wished the altercation had not occurred before the front gates. Thankfully, Sherlock had since learned from the experience and had not tried to reproach any of the survivors for their tactics. That didn't mean he thought them better, just that he knew to keep his mouth shut around the others. No one wanted to listen to him here. His expertise meant nothing. And now he was ostracized form the majority—the survivors wanting nothing to do with him and his dangerous ideas. Everyone was just trying to live and keep what remained of their loved ones safe.

Sherlock was a threat to that.

How did he manage to get himself into these situations?

Luckily, John was another matter. A soldier and a doctor, his skills were greatly beneficial to The Compound. Not everyone injured was attacked. Many were victims of debris and misfires. For these he and others like him did the best they could. They had sterilized one of the rooms within The Compound to use as a sort of ward. Only the medical experts and patients were allowed through.

And beside the ward, the firearm storage.

The irony was not lost on John.

The real reason for its placement, though, was in fact for rather morbid practicality. Should The Compound somehow be overrun, those that were injured and immobile would be the first liability. There would be no time to move them, and their compromised state would mean that the virus would overcome them at a much faster rate than one who was healthy before being bit. For a normal person, there was about an hour, give or take, for the virus to set into their blood stream. After that, there would be a ten minute period of delirium that would signify the virus infecting the brain. It wouldn't be long before the madness would turn violent.

The reason the firearm storage was there was so that they could kill the wounded.

But the guard on constant patrol did their best to ensure that this would never happen. Everyone healthy and able on The Compound did their part to help protect their new home. In a way, the loss of their old way of life had broken down the barriers of the social hierarchy. Everyone was equal in their mutual grievances. There was no place for the stigmas that had defined them before. If they didn't all work together, then they were as good as dead. However, Sherlock, the exception to all, still managed to accomplish this feat. Though he did it as much to himself as they did to him. He _wanted_ to be separate from them as it allowed him more freedom. What no one, save for John, knew was that he was still looking for a cure.

The Compound had once been a university. It didn't have all that Sherlock's old lab held by means of supplies, but it served its purpose well enough. The dorm that he and John had managed to acquire was close to the labs, as well as the library. More often than not Sherlock would hide away in there, scanning medical texts for anything that could help him. John would sometimes be of some use to him when he found the time, but he himself was more likely to be found in the ward than anywhere else.

The only time they would be in the same room for more than an hour was during the night, when Sherlock listened intently to a radio and John would try to close his eyes against the hellish visions his subconscious bestowed upon him. Sometimes the static of the radio and the murmured broadcasts (from so long ago, why were they still playing?) provided enough of a distraction that he could slip under. Sometimes he would just lay awake for hours listening to them as Sherlock did.

_The government has declared Defcon Six. Military forces are establishing quarantines in the infected areas and will restore marshal law within the next seventy-two hours, in the meantime..._

Once John had asked Sherlock why he kept listening to the same repeating messages. John had thought that perhaps he was trying to decipher some sort of code or pattern within them to help him in his pursuit of a cure. Maybe by listening to the broadcasts he could locate what areas were first infected and then implement that information into a geographical map to determine what in each location could be the source. And maybe he was doing that.

But when Sherlock had replied with a solemn 'I'm waiting', John learned he was not as unflappable as he had originally thought.

Because Sherlock wasn't just listening to old messages. He was waiting for new ones.

Messages that they both knew weren't coming.

The raid of infected came as a shock to the refugees a few days later. No one was lost during it, but their panic was enough to redouble their efforts of maintaining the boundary. It was for the best, actually. They should have never let it become lax to begin with. Too long they had become complacent with their new life on The Compound. It was best not to forget that they were still very much fighting for their lives.

Another sharp crack as the gun was discharged.

"Dammit, Sherlock! Be quiet!" John hissed.

The detective just shrugged and buried his nose a little further into his scarf. "Rats," he said, voice muffled by the fabric. "Trying to keep away the rats."

"Yeah, well, I don't really think they're our main problem right now, so would you stop fooling around and keep watch? People are relying on us, here."

"Correction: people rely on _you_." said Sherlock. "They never once relied on me. Had they—"

John ground his teeth. "Yes, yes. I know. But we can't afford to go off on one of your mad schemes, right now."

Sherlock's steely eyes set on him. "As I was about to say, before I was interrupted: Had they relied on me, there would not have been as many alive as there is now."

As close to an admission as he was going to get. 'People would have died.' But John also knew that he thought more would have been saved had he found the cure. Which he would have done, surely, had he been able to find a subject. Had he use of his original lab. But there was simply no way. And Sherlock was still bitter. At least he was admitting that he wasn't entirely in the right. It was a start.

It was night time and all the lights were muted or extinguished, leaving them in near darkness at their post. Like insects, the zombies were attracted to those flares of light. It was a beacon to them. The lights meant food. All the windows were boarded up tight, and no one was permitted to leave their rooms unless strictly necessary, and then only if the lights were out before opening the doors.

Moonlight wasn't enough to see by.

The two men were silent for a stretch of time. John was on constant surveillance, as was ingrained upon him in his time within the service. Sherlock was moping, but had thankfully stopped making a ruckus. He could be such a petulant child sometimes it was astounding. Their shift was drawing to a close—they couldn't have more than a half hour left on the watch. John tried not to be overly relieved as the seconds ticked by. Something was putting him on edge. The rotation couldn't happen soon enough.

"Did you hear that?" asked Sherlock, suddenly. Straining his ears, John listened. Nothing. "There it was again!" he cried. He was on his feet now, gun raised and eyes bright.

Exasperatedly, "I don't hear anything."

Sherlock shushed him and waited. A low growl breached the quiet. He _definitely_ heard that. More? How many? Was it another raid? John savagely sought any movement in the darkness beyond. Seconds. They only had seconds.

Now.

The zombie barrelled across the rocky path with madness-induced urgency. Both men opened fire upon the grotesque body but it continued on. These things were worse than bloody cockroaches!

"Aim for the head!" shouted Sherlock, as though he didn't already know that. A moment to centre himself.

Breathe. Oxygen to his racing heart.

Aim. The rifle a steady weight in his hands.

Fire. Flesh splintering apart.

The zombie dropped.

Everything around them went quiet once more. Could that possibly have been all? Just the one? John severely hoped so.

Sherlock just looked put out.

"Another viable subject wasted," he bemoaned. With a long-suffering sigh, he turned to John. "Are you injured?"

He scoffed. "Oh please, don't worry about me. I'm fine. I'm sure you're much more interested in the body, anyhow." John rolled his eyes when Sherlock immediately lost interest in him in lieu of doing just that. Typical. "Do you think that was the last of them?"

The other made an 'mmm' sound that meant he wasn't actually listening; too caught up in his own head. "What do you think is in the virus that keeps them from eating each other?" he instead replied. John just shrugged. The action made Sherlock scowl.

"You could try being a _little_ more useful," he spat. Blue eyes gleamed like ice in the moonlight. He looked demonic. Every bit as insane as John knew he could be. "You—" he began, but stopped short. Now his eyes shone with an entirely different light. "John, _move!_"

Too late. An intense pain rioted through him as teeth dug into the meat of his forearm. There had been more than one. How could he let this happen? There was _always_ more than one! A bright light temporarily blinded him as Sherlock's gun fired at the zombie latched into his arm. It howled in pain, opening its mouth just wide enough for John to wrench his arm free. Another shot and the creature went down. Another just for good measure. Not necessary, but it made John feel a little better.

Oh God, he'd been bit. By one of them. He was going to die. He was going to become one of—

Sherlock was just staring at him with those manic eyes.

With what he hoped were not his last words, he stated:

"You may not use my body for science."


	3. I: Gallowwalker

The gears grinding in Sherlock's mind were nearly as audible as the clock ticking over John's own. How much longer did he have? An hour? Less? More? His heart, traitorously pumping the virus throughout him, was too loud in his ears. He couldn't think. He couldn't move. Minutes ticking by. Was there even a point in waiting?

The rifle was heavy in his hand.

"Don't," said Sherlock suddenly. John jerked out of his reverie.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do what I know you're thinking." His eyes were darting side to side rapidly, like he was trying to read him, follow the virus as it infected him.

"You don't know what was going on in my head," John shot back. Sherlock's expression was then very dark. The image of the demon was brought to the front of his mind, once more.

"You're so painfully transparent. Don't waste your precious energy with useless blather. Shut up, I'm thinking."

Indignant, "Well, pardon _me_ for not considering _your_ needs at a time like this. How incredibly self-centred of me," John said, words saturated with sarcasm, and just a hint of hysteria. He was beginning to feel dizzy. His muscles felt sore, and the bite on his forearm throbbed in time to his heartbeat.

One second. Two. Three.

"We have to get back to the dorm," concluded Sherlock.

"What? We can't. You can't risk me going through The Compound at this state."

Sherlock gave him an irate look. "I'm not leaving you to die out here, or by the hands of the patrol shift that are on their way."

"Then don't. We can end it right now," he reasoned. He couldn't do it by himself—the bite had been to his shooting arm. He might misaim. But that didn't mean Sherlock couldn't.

The detective bore his teeth. "Never," he seethed. "I'll infect myself before that happens." And he would.

Sociopath his _arse_.

Though the man could be cold and callous to just about everyone, John had long ago found himself to be an exception. His only friend in a world teeming with others, and Sherlock was about to lose that. John felt sorry for him.

"Then what do you plan on doing? We don't have much longer." Inevitable truth. He was dying. Whatever time he had left was all John would be able to give him.

"Back at the dorm. We're going back. When the patrol gets here, make sure you cover your arm. They would have heard those gunshots, so there will be a greater number than usual. We'll figure out what to do once we get away from them." Faint noises from the aforementioned guards were growing closer. Sherlock gave John's arm a fleeting glance, then added, in ill-timed jest, "Are you sure you won't donate to the cause of science?"

* * *

><p>The walk back to the dorm had gone better than John had anticipated. There had been five patrol replacements that had come. Three had stayed and two had followed them back into The Compound. Now that his nerves had calmed somewhat, John was able to not act suspicious around them. He was thankful for the lack of light that hid the dark stain growing on the arm of his jumper.<p>

Sherlock was moving like a man possessed. His long strides were difficult to match, and more than once John would have to make a small leap to keep up. The two patrolmen noticed his urgency but made no comment. They would surely share a snide remark or two at his expense when out of earshot but would remain silent as long as Sherlock was there. No one wanted any interaction with him.

The men departed company in silence.

When Sherlock and John made it up to their lodgings, Sherlock was immediately fanatical. He grabbed a pair of gloves from the box on the desk beside the radio and slid them on. He approached John who presented his arm to him without protest. The bite was less painful that it had been earlier, but he knew that was more the adrenaline than anything else. It had taken them about twenty minutes to make it back here, so he had no more than a half hour remaining before the change. His pistol was in the right drawer.

"Sherlock—"John began.

"Shut up." He prodded at the broken flesh intently. _That_ hurt.

"Hey, you mind? I can still feel, you know. Nerve endings aren't that shot." That earned him a look somewhere between irritation and concession. Sherlock moved away. More seriously, John tried again, "Sherlock, you know as well as I do what's coming. There's no use trying to stop it."

The man still had his back to him and was moving about the room, gathering bottles of chemicals that he'd stored in corners and shelves. "We have to do _something_, John. What do you think we could do if you were to change now? Here, in the dorm, in the middle of The Compound." He set an armful of bottles on the table. "If you turn here, you're a danger to everyone. As soon as the disease is known to have gotten by, panic will spread. This is their haven. If one can get through then none of them are safe. If I shoot you, your blood will infest the room. The entire place will be contaminated, and the same problem will occur." He came to stand; now facing him. "We have no choice, John; _we have to fix this_."

Oh God, he was right. What had they done? Why had he allowed Sherlock to bring him back here? If he got out now, he might still be able to get outside before the turn. But the patrolmen had seen him, so they would know he'd been inside. He couldn't leave this room.

"You _bastard_," said John simply.

Sherlock cocked his head and grinned. "We have thirty minutes, give or take. If I can't cure you in that time, I'll seal the door and shoot you. And then I'll shoot myself." He said this as if it were the only logical conclusion.

At this point, maybe it was.

This man was absolutely raving mad. There was no cure—he wasn't even anywhere close to making a cure.

They were both going to die tonight.

"Alright."

He took a slow seat on his bed and leaned back against the wall while Sherlock went to work. There wasn't much of a point of removing his jumper to get a closer look at the wound, so he just propped it up on the pillows to try to alleviate some of the pain. It helped a little.

"Are you in much pain?" Sherlock asked.

John thought to shrug but decided better of it. "Not really."

"Do you feel sick? Dizzy? Are you thinking clearly?"

"I feel fine. Thirsty, but otherwise normal. Maybe a little tired."

The bottle in the detective's hand sloshed with some experimental concoction. He pried off the lid. It smelled foul. "Here, drink this. Should quench your thirst."

John eyed it. "You know what; I'm really not that thirsty."

"_John_." He pushed the bottle closer to his lips and John turned away.

"No, I'm good."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, for heaven's sake. _Drink the damn bottle_."

Perhaps he was going to kill him.

The doctor took the bottle with more than a hint of reluctance. Sherlock stared at him, expectant. He tried to crack a half-grin.

"Well, cheers." He toasted the glass and slammed it back. It tasted a million times worse than it smelled and scorched his throat unlike any liqueur. It made his insides burn. "Bloody hell," he wheezed.

"Thirsty anymore?" John shook his head. "Good. Mission accomplished. Now, that bottle is the closest I've come to stopping the virus. If nothing else, it should buy us more time. Let me know if you feel any different." Sherlock pulled the belt from his dressing robe that was cast over the foot of his bed and held it up to John's face.

"And what are you doing with that?"

"It's a precaution," said Sherlock, "should the virus work faster than we anticipate, I can't have you mobile." He wrapped John's wrists tightly, though taking care not to jostle his arm too much in the process. John wanted to say something but knew it was for the best. When Sherlock was satisfied that he couldn't move and wasn't in undue amounts of pain, he set back at his desk. "Keep an eye on the clock. I want you to tell me every five minutes how you feel. Any change at all could be of the utmost importance."

The clock from the radio read 12:17. A half hour would be 12:47, which would be his deadline. Quite literally. While he prayed that Sherlock would defy all odds and create a cure in that time, or that whatever he was just forced to drink would give them a few precious minutes, he wasn't going to fool himself by hoping. He leaned back against the wall and thought. He wasn't exactly going to miss this place, but he regretted being forced to leave in this way. Without him, maybe someone who would die tomorrow would have lived. Perhaps a real cure would be discovered in a month and life would begin to rebuild in some semblance of normalcy. And selfishly, he envied all those who would go on to see these times while he was forced to end here.

Pencil scratches from Sherlock's frantic notes brought his mind back.

The little red numbers weaved from in-between the silhouette of the shaft of the utensil. Five minutes. As soon as the number switched, Sherlock stilled and looked to him.

"Still fine," he said. "I don't feel any different."

"Muscles?"

"Sore."

"Coherency?"

"Lucid."

"Appetite?"

John nearly laughed. "Nil."

Sherlock nodded and got back to work. The next few successions of five minutes were much the same.

Once, Sherlock gave him another compound to try that he'd just composed. It tasted just as vile as the first, but he did his best not to complain. As their half hour became twenty, then fifteen, ten, and lastly five minutes, Sherlock's anxiousness became tangible and made John's skin itch. He didn't stop working until the clock flipped to 12:45.

Regardless of noise, he upended his chair unto the floor.

Back turned, Sherlock said, "John."

Startled by the sudden movement and noise, John took a moment to respond. "Yes?"

"It's time."

A pause.

"I know."

Sherlock did not face him as he went about the room. He locked the door with lock, latch, and modified improvements. Then, with infinite slowness, he opened the desk drawer to remove the handgun. He regarded the weapon and turned to John.  
>Might as well get this over with.<p>

"So, I don't suppose you have anything to say to me right now, do you?" Sherlock slowly shook his head, face utterly blank. John knew better than to be disappointed, but it didn't stop him from being so, all the same. Would it kill him to act at least a _little_ upset? "Right, well, I do." He wetted his lips. "Ever since I moved into Baker Street, you had completely turned my life upside down. You made my life a," 'Living hell' seemed too harsh a term in comparison to their life now, "circus. How I maintained my sanity staying in a flat with a man who had already lost his is beyond me, but I wouldn't change it—any of it—for anything. And I owe you so much." He maintained eye contact with Sherlock, though the words felt foreign in his mouth. He didn't want to say them. No matter how much he meant them. "So there," he concluded, lamely.

Sherlock's face contorted into something tortured, and John vehemently wished that the blankness would come back.

With a bowed head, Sherlock sat on the bed, gangly limbs arranging themselves to awkwardly accommodate his position beside John. The gun hung loosely in his right hand, and they both stared at it.

"I believe I told you once that I was not a hero," he said.

"Yes, I do recall you saying something like that."

Quietly, "I wish I were."

John's throat constricted. "So do I," he replied, honestly.


	4. I: The Boneyard

As the seconds ticked by, they both stared out across the room at the wall, listening to one another breathe in the space between. Everything felt so surreal and unbelievable, and if they looked at one another, saw the pain, the moment would become tangible. Real. They weren't ready.

The purgatory continued.

The little red numbers changed.

"I won't shoot you until you start to change," said Sherlock. He tapped the gun lightly against his knee. "How are you feeling?"

"No different." 12:47. Any moment now. Why hadn't it started already? "Maybe that potion of yours gave me a little more time."

The detective didn't reply at first, but then replied, "Perhaps." The numbers kept changing, and the anticipation was near stifling, slowly killing him by frying his nerves. Was it supposed to be instantaneous or slow? Shouldn't he be feeling something by now? "Nothing?"

"No."

Sherlock rose from his place and looked him dead in the eye. John grit his teeth and tried not to pull away when his eyelids were forced wide by roving fingers. "Bloodshot, but still clear," he said to himself, not John. "How is your sight?"

John jerked his head away. "I see fine."

Sherlock scowled. "_Why?_ The virus should be well into your bloodstream by now. It should be in your brain, affecting your synapses and chemistry. Mental descent should be setting in, but you still retain full use of your faculties. _Why?"_

"Sorry to disappoint," John deadpanned. Blue eyes flashed at him warningly. "Maybe that drink you gave me actually worked. You invented a cure and didn't know it?"

"Don't be ridiculous. If it was a cure, I would have known. It was not."

Some mixture of exasperation, hesitance, and hope was beginning to work its way through the doctor. "You're not omnipotent," he stated. "Maybe the chemicals needed more time, or they reacted differently in my body than you expected."

"It was _not_ a cure, John. Do you think I would give you just anything? I tested that compound a hundred times. My blood was still contaminated when introduced to the contagion." He was up and pacing, now.

That took a second to process. "You've been experimenting on yourself? Sherlock—" He was waved off with a flippant gesture from his hand, and that was when John noticed the cuts decorating his fingers and palm. "When—"

"_Quiet_. Let me think. There has to be an explanation for this." He turned on heel to look at him. "Are you sure you were bitten?" John rolled his eyes.

"Judging from the teeth marks in my forearm, I would say yes. You're the one that shot it, Sherlock. You know I did." The pacing continued. The radio read 12:58. Eleven minutes past the estimated time. They weren't in the clear, yet, but it was a chance. A possibility at maybe. "The virus may have evolved. It may have isolated itself to its host."

"Viruses are viscous and manipulative. It would work to become more potent, not the opposite. That's counterproductive and doesn't make sense."

John sighed and leaned back against the wall. "I don't know. Maybe my immune system is managing to hold it off. It could still kick in any moment." That earned him a critical look.

"I need a blood sample." Sherlock dug through the desk drawer and pulled out a syringe. John didn't want to think about the implications of its presence there.

"I won't become your science experiment," warned John, eying him.

"You don't have a choice in the matter." He removed the cap to the needle. "There's always a reason, and the reason is in your blood," he explained.

John didn't even attempt to argue with him as he was stuck with the needle. "Fine, but don't get any on your hands. The virus could easily get in one of those cuts. I won't have you acting like any more of a loon than you already are. Bloody embarrassing." Sherlock's lips quipped.

"I'm not untying you." Because there was still time for the change to happen, so it wasn't safe to release him just yet.

"Yes, fine. I'll just stay here, tied up like a good little lab rat while you're off."

Sherlock slipped the syringe in the plastic sleeve and removed the gloves he still wore. "I shall return as soon as I have results." He slid on his scarf, pulled on his pea coat, and did up the buttons, just as he always did before. It made John smile.

"Bring back some milk on your way."

He couldn't, but he wouldn't when he could, anyhow, so it didn't matter. It made John feel better to say it.

The door clicked shut and John shut his eyes.

Okay.

Everything was going to be okay.

* * *

><p>The door bursting open woke John from a fitful sleep.<p>

"This is perfect! Absolutely perfect! John, do you realize just how important your existence has become?"

So he'd only just now become important? What happened to him being worth dying for only hours before?

"Not really, no."

Sherlock was muttering as he went about the room, tugging off his coat and scarf. "Your blood," he was saying, "was infected. The virus flows through your veins."

The blood drained from John's face. "That's not a good thing, Sherlock."

Sherlock beamed. "But it is. John, don't you understand? You're _immune_."

Oh.

That was not what he was expecting.

He tried to wrap his mind around this, but his brain couldn't seem to understand Sherlock's words. "You mean that it won't affect me; that I can't contract it. Ever."

"Do try to keep up," Sherlock said impatiently. His voice took on a dreamy quality. "This is it. The chance we were waiting for. Now we can move forward."

All of this seemed too good to be true. Things like this simply didn't happen in this life. Miracles were just false hopes. Except with Sherlock. Just one more miracle. "Can you really? Make a cure, from my blood?"

"Yes. Maybe. If I can isolate the factor that neutralized the virus and then somehow recreate it." He laughed, a giddy-maniacal way. As if he didn't appear enough as the mad scientist without it.

John shook his head and shifted to ease his sore back. He would very much like to move now. "Does this mean that you can let me up?" His wrists were aching terribly, and now that the more immediate threat of the virus was no longer a factor, there was still the very real possibility of infection to the open wound. Sherlock had forgotten him completely, as it soon become apparent, as he was quickly upon him, murmuring hasty apologies. John hobbled over to the chair (which was still upturned, so he had to set it right) while Sherlock replaced his gloves so that he could get into a position that the detective could get at his arm. The jumper caught on the broken flesh and made him wince.

"Should have tended to this earlier," Sherlock groused. "Who knows what kind of bacteria was in that thing's mouth."

"Well, we had a bit more on our minds at the time than that, didn't we?"

His response was ignored as if he hadn't spoken at all, Sherlock intently pouring alcohol onto a rag and dabbing the edges of the wound, clearing away dried blood. "Sherlock, I think we should talk about earlier."

The detective's eyes met his briefly before turning back. "You should be rejoicing, not lamenting," he chastised.

"You were going to kill yourself," John said, seriously.

"You were going to die," he said back, as equally solemn.

John gave him a very disapproving look. "Sherlock, you can't just do that. You may very well be one of the only ones out there still looking for a cure. If you die, then so does the cure. You can't do that to them."

Sherlock glowered at John's arm instead of meeting his eyes. "_They_ will not mourn my loss. They do not want _my_ cure." He leaned back on his haunches. "I just consume their precious resources; it does not matter that I am here."

"They will think differently when you save them."

"I cannot be their messiah."

"You don't have to be," he opted, "but you won't be anyone's anything if you're not here."

Sherlock leaned his forehead against the back of his gloved hand, fingertips red with John's blood and glistening with the alcohol.

"You can't die on me, John. You can't...scare me like that, ever again."

John squared his jaw. "I will promise you this, if you promise to never take such foolish action again."

A shake of the head. "I cannot."

"I am aware," he conceded. "But then I will not make you that promise." Sherlock made an unhappy noise at the back of this throat and finished dressing the wound in silence. "So what are we going to do now?" John asked when the bite was properly bandaged.

"Resume our normal routine. I am going to need time to isolate the factor of your immunity. We can't allow anyone to know you are a carrier. If they know your blood is infected they will surely take every precaution in order to stop its possible spread." 'Precaution' meaning a bullet to the brain. "Is there any way to remove yourself from the ward? It's dangerous for you to be about the ill. Just one slice of the finger could mean a pandemic."

"It's a risk I will have to take. I cannot opt out of the ward. Not only would it cause suspicion, but I couldn't stand knowing I wasn't there to help when they need me."

"Of course you could opt out," Sherlock chided. "All you would need to do is feign mental duress. It is not so hard to believe that the stress caused by being forced to endure those suffering day in and out would cause mental instability under prolonged conditions. They would be able to find someone else to take your roll."

"Sherlock, I was once a _soldier_, though I know you often forget this. I've been through war before and came out fine. This is no different." Sherlock looked at him beseechingly for a moment, hoping that John would crack, but John was having none of it. The imploring look immediately dropped away and was replaced by something snide and derisive.

"John, patron saint," Sherlock mocked.

"Oh, shut it. I will be careful." He looked to the jumper still strewn across the desk, where Sherlock left it. The blood on the sleeve was still fresh enough to infect. Sherlock could be astoundingly hypocritical.

Of the two of them, he wasn't worried about his own actions near as much as Sherlock's.

He'd either end up killing them all or himself.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was listening to the radio as John lay in bed, unable to sleep. This still remained one of the only times they were able to keep for themselves, away from all the chaos and noise. The radio was down so low that it barely filled the space left by the silence.<p>

Without seeing his face, John knew Sherlock's eyes were closed, fingers steeped in a meditative state as he stared blankly to the boarded up window. Above the bed was a periodic table with harsh black scribbles of X's and checks that John was now scrutinizing, as he'd done countless nights before.

"Your cure," he began. "Can it reverse the virus in a living being?"

He could almost pinpoint exactly the time and the way Sherlock's eyes slid open despite the lack of sight.

"No."

"Right, then." But that wasn't quite all. "There's something you're not telling me."

"I cannot bring back the dead."

John snorted. "I think the virus does that well enough on its own."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous." Sherlock stood, disturbed the papers on his desk, and turned the radio off. "I know the common superstition is that those infected are the 'walking dead.'"

John sat up. "That phrase has been used many times. You've never protested it before," he pointed out.

"It is an apt, if misinterpreted epithet," he said. "Those infected that still walk live. They never died."

"I know that's not true, Sherlock. We've seen one of them reanimate before our eyes. Remember, Mrs. Hudson—"

"_Adrenaline_, John," Sherlock snapped. Their previous landlady was still a topic in which they had been unable to broach, despite John's best efforts. "The virus doesn't kill them. It's toxic and it makes the immune system attack itself. The disruption of chemicals in the brain does not just make them mad; it changes the behaviour of the entire body. The body begins to shut down, but then is 'reanimated' by the release of adrenaline, unfiltered, throughout. This is what keeps them moving, despite the circumstances. By all means, they should be dead. The 'walking dead' is acceptable terminology."

Wait a moment.

"Then there is hope? If they are not dead, then—" Sherlock groaned.

"Are you _listening?_ Those infected have already had their bodies subjected to more than any living person could take, but the excess adrenaline coursing through them allows them to defy the necessities of physical limitation. If it were not for the virus, their bodies would not be able to function. It's all that's keeping them alive. To take that away would mean to kill them."

The bile in John's stomach was making a valiant effort of crawling up his oesophagus. They were all alive. Every single of them. It was so much easier to distance himself from it all when he thought them already gone. It was Afghanistan all over again, as it never was before.

"It would be absurd to suppose that you could kill something that was already dead," Sherlock continued, oblivious to John's newfound inner turmoil. He had turned away and was fiddling with the dials of the radio before turning the power on once more. As the broadcast flitted into the room, John lay back upon the bed, mind alight with new, unwelcome thoughts.

_If you are forced into a confrontation with one of the infected, shoot to kill. Aim for the head to separate the brain from the body; this is the only way to stop them,_ said the speaker. It was a message he'd heard a million times before, but now had too much meaning. Sherlock rested his head in his hands and waited, patiently, for the report to end. For a new one to begin.

"Absurd, yes."

No more so than believing they were dead to begin with.

No less devastating.

He rubbed his calloused hand over his tired eyes.

To think that tomorrow he'd have to carry on as if none of this mattered, because it didn't.


	5. I: Meat Market

The morning of the beginning he'd been awoken, as he had many times before, by the commotion caused by Sherlock rummaging about the room. He was in hot pursuit of a wayward folder that contained the latest in his experimental works. He was fretting because he had _known_ that it was with his files of schizophrenia and hypothermia when he was in the library, and now was not entirely sure if he'd replaced the wrong file in the records.

"Can you not just check and see if the file's there when you head down? I highly doubt anyone is going to take it. You and Anderson are the only ones that are in there on most occasions."

They had discovered that Anderson had been a part of The Compound on their third day, when Sherlock first set foot in the library. This had been when Sherlock was still slowly turning everyone against him, and so the resulting row with the man had inevitably led to every onlooker turning to Anderson's side, which only enraged Sherlock further. Anderson took great pains in disrupting Sherlock's work by nosing through his notes, disrupting his musings, and taking the books Sherlock set aside for himself. John wasn't entirely sure why he did it, other than making Sherlock squirm was entertaining, but he did it often enough that John heard about him on a constant basis. Though Sherlock would often rage due to his actions, he seemed like a relatively harmless nuisance.

The detective had enough sense to not try anything against him publicly, but John had the inkling of suspicion that he was adding small doses of something to the man's water. He'd taken ill, as of late.

Sherlock whipped around to glower at him. "_Anderson_ has now taken to the hobby of moving all the books in the library that I have used and putting them in different locations. It could take hours to find the correct file again, thanks to that vile man," he seethed in derision.

John rose from bed, head turned down to hide the smile on his face. Their feud held little bearing over him, but it constantly amused him. "Have you ever tried just asking him? Perhaps instead of constantly going at each other's throats," he held up a finger to silence the protest on Sherlock's lips, "you could try to do something more productive."

"As if anything that man would contribute could possibly be conducive to my work. He'd do nothing but slow me down with his idiocy," Sherlock bit out. He was pacing before the foot of John's bed, shoulders hunched like an unsettled bird. "I have to stop this. He shall not ruin all of the work I have sought to achieve over his petty grudge." He flew to the door with his coat trailing behind him dramatically.

"Oi! Don't do anything that will cause a scene. You have enough problems, as is. You don't need to add any more to the list," John admonished, foregoing lacing up his boot. Sherlock blinked at him innocently, as if to say 'who, me?' John was not impressed.

Dropping the pretence, Sherlock growled, "I will do whatever is necessary to achieve my ends. What the others think means nothing. If Anderson gets in my way again, I will remove him."

"…just don't kill him."

"No promises." And he left.

John sighed and finished doing up the laces. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

><p>The ward had been blissfully uneventful for a majority of the morning. Walter (a surly old man who refused to eat anything that wasn't fried) had collapsed due to dehydration while trying to tear down a wall that connected two classrooms that they had been using as storage. When asked about it, he refused to answer.<p>

"Now, Walter, you know you can't just do things like that. Something much worse could have happened. The wall could have collapsed on you. You've got to be more careful," Lydia, a once-studying nurse that worked alongside John, said. She had a kind face etched with premature stress lines and thin lips that she held between her teeth when she was thinking. She smiled at the elderly man in a disarming way that John could never seem to achieve. Walter turned away, bashful.

"It's none of yer business," he mumbled. "Jus' tryin' to work on something to keep me busy. There ain't no harm in that, is there?"

"It is when you hurt yourself," Lydia reasoned, patting his shoulder. "I don't want to see anything happen to you. Try to be careful? I won't ask what you were doing, but I just want you to try to be safe." The old man grumbled a response and sat up from the desk they had been using as a makeshift bed. John watched him stagger out of the room from where he was on the opposite end, helping one of the more sickly boys attempt to drink water. His mother was on patrol at the border and was unable to cater to him as she usually would.

Lydia sighed and cleared away all her tools, then walked over to John. "Hey, there," she said, conversationally. "Haven't seen you around here often." It wasn't an accusation, just an observation. He'd been spending more and more time in the labs with Sherlock. Sherlock may be genius, but he didn't have John's medical background.

"Yeah, just been busy. Trying to keep things in order." Meaning keeping Sherlock in line and not with a bullet between the eyes or a broken neck.

She smiled knowingly. "He being particularly difficult?" she asked, taking the other end of the sheet that was offered to her and helping set it straight.

"To put it lightly." He shrugged. "Keeps me sane, though. Running around after him keeps me focused on the now rather than in my head. I can't complain too much."

"That's how Michael was. He always seemed to have some mad scheme or another that he was chasing after, in the end. Literally. But he always took me along for the ride. It's why I married him." She had a faraway look to her eyes. "He was my anchor through some hard times. I don't know what I would have done had I never met him." The light returned to her. "I'm sure you know what I mean."

He did, but that didn't need to be said. "You never told me you were married," he dodged.

"Just a few months before the outbreak, actually. I lost the ring in the move to here, though. It was with him." Something bitter crept into her voice. "It was _lost_ with him."

Oh. He'd been turned.

"I'm sorry."

Lydia shook out of her state, trying to play it off with a smile. "I-I don't mean to bring this up. Everyone's lost someone. I should just be thankful that I made it out alive." But at what cost? John wanted to ask, but held his tongue. "But I'm glad it's not like that for everyone."

With nothing he felt would be appropriate to add, John nodded. He shuffled around awkwardly, checking on the few people in the ward that were conscious enough to try to drink some water or stomach some food. It was getting closer to noon, and the sun streamed directly in through the windows. Lydia opened the main doors and kicked the stands to keep them that way. It was only a little relief, but very much appreciated. And perhaps it was the heat that made him lax, but he hadn't even thought about it when he removed his jacket.

Mr. McGregor was waking up, so John filled a glass from one of the stock and brought it over. Lydia came up behind him with rag damp with alcohol. Mr. McGregor had been one of the accidental shots caused by the panic of moving. His son had brought him to The Compound before venturing beyond the walls in a futile and suicidal effort of fighting back. Ultimately, he never came back. Whether he was killed, turned, or still out there somewhere didn't matter. John would never forgive him for abandoning his father.

Because whenever Mr. McGregor woke up he always asked for him, and John hated to have to tell him.

"Henry? Where's Henry?" the man rasped, clutching to John's forearm with a trembling hand. "My boy, where is he?"

John did his best to get him to lie back. "He's away, Charles," he told, gentling him. "How're you feeling? Do you think you could try to drink some water for me?"

Mr. McGregor's beseeching eyes sought everywhere at once, looking for a son that wasn't there.

Was never there.

John contemplated telling the man that Henry was dead, to spare him the constant cycle of hope and disappointment, but he couldn't stand to think that the man couldn't handle the news. Or worse: that he could, and then Henry came back. He would never be able to forgive himself.

Lydia helped him ease Mr. McGregor back with calming endearments. It wouldn't do for their stitching to tear. It was crude and not nearly as strong as it would have been had they the proper supplies; it wouldn't hold up if he moved around too much. They managed to get him to drink some water and tell them how he was doing (no better, no worse. Still felt like someone tried to pull his intestines out through a hole in his side) and get him still. When he settled and drifted off again, John took a moment to rub at his face.

"Absurd," he muttered into his skin.

"It gets to you, doesn't it?" Lydia asked, folding her hands in her lap. "After a while. I know it gets me. If I didn't have my brother here, I don't think I would be able to stand it." A small smile. "Keeps me grounded. Though I guess you have Sherlock."

There was no contempt in her voice as he had become accustomed to when Sherlock was ever brought up into conversation. One of the things he liked about her was the fact that she didn't think like the rest of them. She wore her heart on her sleeve and believed everyone deserved to have someone else. Not even Sherlock deserved to be alone.

"I—um, I know it's none of my business, but I'm glad you can have someone like him at a time like this." A flush was colouring her cheeks and John was becoming very confused. When he realized what she was implying, he almost groaned. _Again_. Why did people always assume Sherlock and him were together like that? Even now, when society as they knew it had gone to pot. "I guess life or death situations bring out the passion in people."

"Look, it's not—wait, what?" That one phrase had a million insinuations. What did she know?

"I've never been into things like that, myself, but understand how pain might make things seem more real, and—" she was babbling and John's heart was speeding up.

"What are you _talking about?"_ he insisted.

She ducked her head shyly. "The love bite on your arm. It's from him, isn't it? It doesn't bother me, I-I just was thinking. Sorry, it's none of my business to be bringing up."

He looked at his arm, and sure enough, the almost-healed bite was there, glaringly obvious. It was hardly more than a little break in the skin and a crescent shaped redness, but it was undeniable what it was. A bite. He shot up to retrieve his coat; heat be damned.

"I should get going. I'll, um, be around if you need me," he rushed. Too close. What if she had known? A little more experience and maybe she would have been able to tell that the bite was scarring, that the wound had healed from something far more substantial that what she suggested. He'd gotten careless. The poor girl was sputtering apologies that he waved away as he replaced his jacket. With no further salutations than a brisk word, John fled.

He needed air.

* * *

><p>"Anderson," Sherlock demanded.<p>

"Freak," Anderson returned in welcome.

"I know you've taken it. Where is my file?" He rounded the desk Anderson sat at to tower over him.

"You don't intimidate me," Anderson snarled. "And I didn't take your bloody file. It's right under your nose."

Sherlock looked across the table to the stack of books atop it. He recognized the titles; they were all ones he had chosen for himself in his research. And there at the top were the ones he'd taken of schizophrenia and hypothermia. Between them, his file. That's not where he'd left it.

"You've been through my work." He snatched the file from between the books. "Have you contaminated anything?"

Anderson rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "I blacked out all your results in black sharpie," he drawled. He seemed affronted when Sherlock frantically opened the file to see the damage for himself. "As if I could possibly do anything to harm your bloody notes. What would be in it for me?"

"Such logic has never stopped you before. You've always taken to spiteful actions when it suited you."

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, it was _one_ time. And I had already had my arse handed to me from Lestrade, thank you. Just let it go."

"Just because you were reprimanded for your action does not mean you're above repeating it," Sherlock retorted. His words were punctuated by the quick closure of the file in his hands.

Anderson scrunched his nose at him; an action that revealed the bottom edge of his teeth. "I saw your results, you know."

"Oh? And your hollow skull was able to make anything of it?" He was mocking, but truly asking at the same time.

Anderson wasn't a fool. He'd been a part of the forensics team back when Scotland Yard was still an active institution. Not just anyone can get in there, despite what Sherlock often protested. In order to hold his position, he had to have some modicum of intelligence that Sherlock had never been witness to, but apparently was now. Beneath the quelled feeling of anxiety and animosity, Sherlock felt something that might have been approval.

Sensing the shift in the power dynamics of the conversation, Anderson stood. "It did. Tell me, who else knows you're trying to make a cure? I doubt anyone, besides maybe your pet; otherwise you'd have more people helping you." He smiled a little wider; a little crueller. "Or maybe not. You're not exactly working with harmless materials."

Sherlock sat down.

Anderson continued on. "You've got infected blood. _Fresh_ infected blood, from what I could tell." He grinned. "And I want to know how you got it."

* * *

><p>After John had left the ward for the day, he'd tried his best to make his way through to the library where he thought Sherlock to be. He had perhaps made it to the centre of campus before he was stopped by Simon: a gangly teen with a spotty complexion. John liked the kid well enough. He was kind, if somewhat dim due to his lack of age and education. He was still caught up in his head on days, even though the situation called for him to be grounded. The boy was in distress about his sister who had run off earlier in the day in an attempt to play hide and seek with her older brother. He'd been unable to find the child and had recruited the help of others in The Compound to help aid him, but his time was running short to be able to find her before his shift as a guard. John immediately knew where this was headed.<p>

"You need me to go on guard for you."

Simon beseeched him. "Oh would you, please? I will do the same for you, I promise." That was a lie. John only ever went on guard duty with Sherlock as he was the only one who could stand him for that amount of time. Simon couldn't take his shift, even he'd let him. "I just need to find her. I'll come relieve you as soon as I do. Will you help me?"

John sighed. A concession in itself. Simon was grinning even before he'd told him yes. They exchanged a rifle between them and then parted ways: John to the southern border and Simon toward the mess hall. Sherlock would just have to wait for him to return. Hopefully everything had gone well enough with Anderson. He didn't want to have to come back to Sherlock with a battered, bleeding body and defiant expression. Again.

It was Fredrik that greeted him at the wall, pleasantly surprised and shaking his hand. "And what brings the good doctor up on guard today? I thought it was to be the boy."

"He had a bit of a problem he needed to tend to. I'm covering his shift for now. He'll come take over as soon as he's done," John told him, shrugging into his coat a little more. "Everything been clear?"

Fredrik guffawed lightly into his hand before speaking. "No action on this front. Been pretty quiet ever since your little episode with them a while back. Saw one about a mile off with a bad limp. Looks as though the foot's been clear cut off. But it's stayed wandering around down there. It's circling, but I haven't seen anything else."

_It_ was at the foot of the incline. Slight frame and twiggy limbs. It looked hardly more than a teenager. John's stomach knotted on itself. A teenager. The words _still alive_ were bouncing around in his skull like a mantra.

He had to ignore it.

"And it hasn't made any attempt to come up? Even recognized us?"

"No. I'd shoot it down if I didn't think I would miss and ultimately end up having it come after us. That and I don't want the noise. May only be one now, but too much ruckus could bring the others."

John nodded and adjusted his hold on the rifle. Maybe if it got closer he would try to get an aim on it, but as of now it wasn't worth the risk. He'd just have to keep an eye on it.

Through the break in the sparse amount of trees, it lumbered around in the dirt, awkwardly hobbling on one foot and the stub of the other. Its head was held to the sky, though it lolled on its shoulders like a pendulum. The fact that it was close enough for John to see this disturbed him. Would it be safer for him to take aim now? He could make it, surely.

But then the zombie came to attention. Its head snapped back and it reached its arms out to claw at the air, not in the direction of The Compound, but to the right of it. It obviously saw something neither of them did. And I wanted it.

Fredrick nudged John's shoulder. "What does it see?"

All that John could make out was the slope of the grassy hill. Not even a breeze moved the blades of grass. "I don't know. But if it gets any closer, that thing is going to turn towards us."

The man at his side braced himself against his weapon. "Yeah, well, let's just hope it doesn't."

John's eyes were still glued in the direction the zombie had taken, trying to see what would lure it so. "It worries me more that it seems to have really caught a whiff of something. There's no wind, so it'd have to be strong. And the only thing that can catch these guys' attention like that is fresh meat. I think it smells blood."

And Lord help him, he had never wished to be wrong more in his life.

Fredrick took note of the sight just as John had. "Wait, there. I see it now. A person?"

Yes. Yes it was. Two to be more precise. Both of which John recognized.

One Jim Moriarty, bearing the weight of an injured Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Both of which had taken no notice of the zombie closing in from behind them.

John slowly raised the rifle to take aim.


	6. I: Against the Dark

The angle was all off. The two men had chosen quite possible the most indirect route to The Compound wall. It was interlaced with a cluster of trees that were too tightly woven to get a clear shot.

"John, can you get at it? It's close, mate. They can't outrun that thing at this rate."

_Shut up, Fredrik. Not helping._

Moriarty turned his head and looked John, who had the gun aimed for him, in the eye. Really, he was too far away to tell, but John knew he saw a smile split his face. The bastard.

Fredrik was waving at them to usher them towards the entrance they guarded, away from the barrier of trees.

The two men began to move toward them, and the sudden change in direction made the zombie stumble over its own wounded leg. It still didn't give them enough time to make any noticeable distance. The only difference was that now they were leading it straight for the entrance. Lestrade looked up to John, probably wondering as to Moriarty's change in course. And in was in the moment that his eyes locked with John's that the solider fired.

The crack of the rifle made the two men skid to a halt and Fredrik give a startled cough. No, they needed to keep running! He hadn't hit it directly in the brain, but in the jaw. It gurgled and clawed at its own face while still trying to move forward. Lestrade yelled and Moriarty wove his arm at it, as if trying to bat it away. The idiot was going to get his hand bit if he kept doing that, and John was almost tempted to let him. But Lestrade. He took aim again.

This time the shot was true.

The zombie fell.

Both men were ushered back into the sanctity of The Compound walls by the guard while John watched the slope behind them. When both men were securely within the borders, he lowered the weapon and followed. Moriarty was setting Lestrade down on his uninjured leg. When the former inspector had settled, he was immediately seeking John.

"John bloody Watson," Lestrade exalted. "Never thought I'd see the likes of you again."  
>John clasped his hand firmly, face grim. "I can say the same." He looked Moriarty in the eye, and the man looked wary and frightened. An act. "I had never hoped."<p>

The consulting criminal gave him a confused sort of expression, but that glint in his eye told John that, no, he was very aware of the situation. He also knew that he'd just saved Lestrade's life. It was the only thing saving his own.

Lestrade was oblivious.

"John, this is Richard Brooke. Met him about a week in, right before the government started going screwy. Been on the run since. Good thing, too, otherwise I prob'ly wouldn't be here." He knocked his knee tentatively. The front of his leg was wet with blood, and the tear in the fabric was long and rough. There was too much blood for John to be able to tell if it was a bite.

"How did it happen?" he asked, using his sleeve to pull lightly at the shredded cloth to try to get a better look. He needn't worry about the virus, but he still had to take the precaution for pretence's sake.

"Didn't see it coming," said Lestrade, wincing slightly when the cloth caught on skin. "We were at the department when a desk collapsed on me. We were surrounded. If Richard wasn't there, I would have been done for."

"He saved your life, huh? How about that." John scowled. Moriarty looked away, as if shying from John's veiled anger. Would things get terribly out of hand if he were to just shoot the man now? Why was he here? As if their situation couldn't get any worse.

The wound on Greg's leg was deep, but it had already clotted heavily and was trying to heal.  
>"How long ago did this happen?"<p>

"About two, three days ago," Moriarty supplied helpfully. John shot him a look and he fell silent once more. Now Lestrade was eying John as if he wondered as to his sanity.

Ignoring the previous line of conversation, Lestrade asked, "John, is it only you here? Did anyone else make it out?"

"Yeah, Sherlock's here. We made it here together, but we were the only ones. I'm sorry." John still hadn't looked to the DI but was looking at Moriarty. "But Anderson's here."

Greg gave a stuttered laugh. "Irony has a cruel sense of humour. I suppose Sherlock is about running the place by now."

Fredrik coughed roughly into his hand and turned away. Despite him being amiable enough to John alone, he couldn't stand Sherlock. "Not quite." If anyone was going to be running the place, it would have been Mycroft, but like so many others, he'd disappeared as soon as everything went beyond control. Sherlock, as John knew, considered him lost as soon as they had been forced to flee Baker Street.

Lestrade was giving him a look. "Where is he now?"

"Probably in the library. Look, we can go hunt him down once we get that leg settled."

The DI consented, and John helped him to his feet. "You can't know how great it is to see you. After the first two months, I thought everyone was gone. I went there, you know. To Baker Street." Greg paused. "Sorry about your landlady. She was sweet."

John didn't answer immediately. "I wouldn't bring that up when we find Sherlock."

They were silent for a while after that.

Moriarty was trailing behind them. John could feel the eyes that followed him, but he reminded himself that _he_ was the one with the gun. There were no bomb and no snipers waiting in the wings. Moriarty sure had been a threat once, but now he was only a scrawny man in a worn jumper. And a frightening intelligence.

"So what's happened to Sherlock?" Lestrade questioned lowly.

"What do you mean?"

"I can tell something's wrong here. And that guy's reaction, you didn't say anything. You always say something. Or at least take notice. I can only assume that either you don't care about it, or you're used to it."

"You know how he is. Nothing happened to Sherlock other than he tried to be his normal, controlling self. He had a plan, they didn't agree with it. He was shot down." Lestrade blanched, and John quickly remedied, "Not literally. Well, he got knocked in the jaw for it, but nothing more serious than that. He's had worse."

He wished he was referring to times back when life was normal, but he wasn't. He'd had worse done to him within The Compound when he treaded on one too many toes. He'd refused to give John names.

"And that turned everyone against him? Just like that? Or was that guy it?"

John pursed his lips and adjusted Greg's weight on his shoulder. "No, that's pretty common. And as you said, I'm used to it." He sighed. "There's no room for intelligence like that in a state of fear."

"That's bloody tragic," Lestrade lamented. John was slightly taken aback.

"I thought this is what you all wanted: to bring him down to our level."

Judging by the disgusted look on Lestrade's face, that was a definite no. "And what, make him one of us? Why on earth would I want to do that for? I'd never want to be the one to make him stoop so low." His lips curled bitterly and he spat, "It's just another thing we've lost."

He really couldn't have said it better himself.

John saw Moriarty duck his head and his shoulders shake. He wondered if he perhaps was mocking Lestrade's words, and he had to vehemently remind himself that he was holding an injured man and that, no, he couldn't manoeuvre enough to get a shot in without possibly dropping him. Oh, Moriarty was clever, indeed. Lestrade was his one and only safeguard.

They drew towards the centre of The Compound, and that was when people began to slowly gravitate towards them. They kept their distance, however, wary of the injury to Lestrade's leg.

John whispered into the DI's ear, "Be careful. Don't let anyone near that wound unless they're a part of the ward, okay. Some are all too paranoid to take chances. Until you're cleared, you're not safe."

"Will they try to kill me?"

"Some, yes."

"Lovely." Lestrade smiled grimly and nodded his head to a man standing before (shielding) a woman: his wife. The man eyed Lestrade, then John, before turning his back and ushering the woman away. It was never easy to integrate a new arrival, but it didn't stop the doctor from hoping. At this moment, he wanted nothing more than to be accommodating the DI. He needed the man to stay. Glancing behind himself, John's steps faltered.

Moriarty wasn't there.

He had slipped away in the crowd. He could be anywhere in The Compound. He could be going after Sherlock. John's pulse hammered. And if he _did_ do something to Sherlock, no one would save him.

"John, what's wrong?"

Blinking away the scenarios playing before his eyes, he muttered, "Nothing."

There was nothing he could do right now. Once Greg was in the ward he could go after Sherlock. What damage could Moriarty honestly do? This was John's territory. Here there were no puzzles laced with sickly sweet smiles and Semtex. Sherlock was stronger, and equally as clever. He could protect himself. If only he would. He didn't need John to protect him from Moriarty.

Only himself.

* * *

><p>"And if I refuse? What then? Will you tell them? They'll believe you, of course. You wouldn't even need the file."<p>

Anderson's face was still, but his eyes flicked away from Sherlock's face. "They would ruin your research. Destroy the effort. And they'd make you tell them where you got it. Keep getting it."

"Yes, they would."

Anderson closed his eyes and sat with a sigh. "I would, you know. Not just to spite you, either. You're bringing this stuff into our sanctuary. All it takes is a single cut; a nicked finger. And all of this is ruined. You understand, don't you?"

Especially because he'd said the same thing to John, yes.

Sherlock remained silent and watched. He also understood that the only reason he was here was due to one person, and that it was that very person that posed such a threat. No one could find out about John. No matter if they killed him to force it out of him. But if they never had the chance to know, then the problem was averted.

If Anderson didn't make the correct decision here, Sherlock would have to kill him.

John would disapprove, but what must be done would, in order to keep him. In any case, John had once killed a man for him. He would just be repaying the favour. And friendship was all about repaying favours, wasn't it?

"Do you know what you're doing?" Anderson asked.

Replying to the inquiry in part to Anderson as much as his own internal monologue, Sherlock said, "In part." Snapping his neck would be quiet and bloodless. Best option. Second option: suffocation. Too much struggle, desired result.

As he was to everything else, Anderson was oblivious to this. He kept talking. "How close are you?"

"Closer than I was a month ago."

Anderson glared. "Don't provoke me, you git. You know as well as I do that you're already close to the edge with these people. They're just looking for a reason to get rid of you. And this," he poked at the file, "would definitely do it."

"Then do it. Tell them. And the cure will be lost with me," Sherlock bit. _Make the right decision, Anderson._

Running a hand through his oily hair, Anderson pressed, "What about your keeper? What does he think about you doing this?"

"John is an indispensable aid to me, as I'm sure you already assumed. Or am I overestimating you?" Taking a jibe in order to try to side track him.

"And he doesn't think you're taking an unwarranted risk?" Tactic ignored.

Sherlock's mouth stretched at the corners. "If he did, he would have stopped me."

"There's no stopping you when your mind's set on something." A pause. "Alright. Then here's my deal." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I won't turn you in. I won't even ask where you're getting your supply. But I want in."

"What?" No. That was not the correct answer at all.

"You heard me."

"Clearly not, or I would have responded as such."

"That's my terms. Either you can take it or leave it," Anderson said, crossing his arms over his chest. His jumper crinkled noisily which took away from the effect he was surely trying to impose.

"If I do not, will you hand it over?"

"I will."

Sherlock was becoming distressed. His jaw was locked tight, he knew, and his eyes were wide. It was a look John often told him was something akin to freezing. Whatever that meant. "Or I could kill you now. I could hide you."

The other paled. "Bloody hell, what happened to you? Have you really changed that much since then? Would you really cross that line?"

Simply, "The status quo has changed."

"Not that much. I won't interfere. I can _help_ you. You're not the only one that wants this. I have something invested in making this cure just as much as you."

"I seriously doubt that." In no case would Anderson working with him result in John's continued anonymity. And that was the most important.

A low whistle suddenly caught their joint attention.

Someone was stepping into the doors newly opened at the library entrance, judging by the shadows cast against the bookshelves from the light beyond. Slow, methodical. Sneakers were quiet against the carpeted flooring. Who would be coming in the library? No one came into the building because Sherlock took refuge here. If they were here, it meant they must have been looking for him. Possibly Anderson, but Anderson was hardly of use to anyone and his shift on rotation didn't come for another two days.

Neither man moved or spoke as the footsteps grew closer.

"Sherlock Holmes. In the flesh."

Sherlock whirled around with a fervour that took the forensics specialist aback. That voice. That sing-song tone that he'd only hoped to (never) hear again. Moriarty.

"And who are you?" Anderson demanded. The fool really couldn't keep his trap shut, could he?

"Richard Brooke," drawled Moriarty, not once looking away from Sherlock to address Anderson. His pocketed hands were hidden by the loose folds of his pull-over. Was he concealing a weapon? No, he wouldn't. Not yet. Too close. He couldn't have been here long enough to attempt something like that this soon. In any case, it wasn't how he operated.

"What are you doing here?" 'Brooke' grinned pleasantly, eyes slowly taking the detective in. The way he did it wasn't lewd, but predatory—longing. Anderson made a shuddering movement that Sherlock noted from the corner of his eye. Yes, Moriarty had that effect. The wolf before the lamb.

"Did you miss me?" he hummed.

A slow smile split Sherlock's face. "Emphatically."

If at all possible, Moriarty's lazy smile melted into something even more luxuriously sinister. However, when he finally turned to Anderson, there was nothing but contempt in his eyes.

"I think it's time for you to leave. Sherlock and I have some catching up to do."

"You're joking," he scoffed. "I'm not going anywhere. Sherlock and I have something we're already discussing, so if you'd kindly _butt out_."

Of all the insipid things—

"Anderson. Enough. It's time for you to leave," Sherlock told him, icily.

Anderson gave him a gobsmacked expression that made him look like a fish.

"You're _joking_. No, look here. I am not going to be waved off just because your _boyfriend's_ come back and—"

"_Anderson_."

"Don't forget, but I'm the one holding all the cards in your little game, and I can still choose to—" Don't say it. Not in front of this man.

Moriarty could not know about his effort. Under no circumstances. It didn't matter where they stood now, or what bad air lie between them; Jim Moriarty was fire. If it suited him, he would destroy everything. Sherlock would not allow this kind of leverage be placed in the madman's hands. It was only a matter of time, but he would stave it off for as long as possible.

But he needed the cure if John was ever going to be safe.

"—not a discussion, man! Our conversation is over. Leave," Sherlock intervened. But quietly, more to himself than to Anderson, he added, "The decision is quite clear. You have to help."

And that stunned the forensics specialist into an uncharacteristic silence. He looked to Sherlock, who straightened his back and looked him in the eye, then to Moriarty, whose smile had not fallen but eyes narrowed. Another time. Without another word, he left.

"How juvenile, Sherlock, thinking that you can possibly hide anything from me. But that's for another time." He teetered on the balls of his feet. "It's so good to see you again. How have you been? We should really catch up."

"How did you get in here?"

"The funniest thing, actually. Your little pet let me in, if you would believe. You should have seen the look on his face. Careful, Sherlock. Rabid dogs will be put down."

Sherlock's eye twitched.

"If it was John at the gate," which he shouldn't have been, as it wasn't his rotation, "then he would have shot you."

Moriarty tutted. "Ah, ah. But not when you're holding something they want. A bargaining token, if you will. To grant me passage and protection."

"What are you talking about?"

But he didn't get a direct answer. Moriarty looked over Sherlock's shoulder, to the space beyond. "How far will people go to retain a bit of something of the past? To clutch to that one tie of a world gone. Sentiment." He sneered and turned his attention back to Sherlock. His face was much too close, but Sherlock didn't move away. No outward appearance of an affect would he give. "It makes people weak. And it makes them stupid."

Emotional ties held one back. Yes, he could agree to this. But they could also pull one forward.

"What about you, Moriarty?" Sherlock began, slowly and with care and the other made an exaggerated 'me?" expression. "Looking for another game, already? Not more than an hour in The Compound and you've already sought me out. Sentiment?"

"Don't flatter yourself, darling. It's really not an attractive trait at all. And believe me when I say that I only wished to see just how much you've changed since the beginning. Only the stupidest of animals would fail to assimilate to a new environment. And only the most brilliant would be able to, despite this, maintain as they were." He shook his head, sadly. "I knew you were ordinary, Sherlock. Boring. Tell me, how long did it take for them to break you?"

Sherlock's lip curled cruelly.

"And you, 'Richard Brooke'? Do not pretend that you have not done what is necessary. You are not above this."

Moriarty hummed. "I had so hoped to use that name in a different time. It would have been quite spectacular, had you seen it. A fitting end." His grin slid off his face upon changing topic. "But no. I don't call myself this out of necessity. How dull that would be. I'm still playing the game. And I had hoped that my pieces weren't broken, but it would appear I hoped for too much. But I am not ungracious, Sherlock. I brought you a present. My token, it's in the shop right now, but I'm sure you wouldn't mind the damaged goods."

"That is why John did not ensure you stayed in sight."

Moriarty blew a raspberry at him. "As if he really could. If I didn't want his notice, I wouldn't have it. It's as simple as that. After all, not even Big Brother could keep tabs on me the entire time." Sherlock flinched and Moriarty grinned. "But enough about that. Don't you want to see your present? I want you to. I really did miss our game, Sherlock. And though you may be broken, I think that having a little..._incentive_ will liven things up again. Go on."

Sherlock moved slowly, and Moriarty's watery eyes followed him. It would be best to get as far away from Jim as he could. He needed to regroup. He needed John. He needed more time. The doors opened and allowed him passage into the cold night air. The sun had already gone down and the lights extinguished, so he would have to make his way to the ward in the dark. It would give him time to think. Head bowed and eyes trained on the shadows, he walked on.

He would just have to adapt.


	7. I: 28 Days Later

Sherlock walked through The Compound without upset. The moon had risen full that night, for which the guard on this night's rotation would be very grateful, but also meant that there were very few that wandered around without the disguise of darkness. When there was more light, there was more likely a chance of attack. The easier it was to see, the easier it was to draw attention by movement. That is why the full moon's illumination was very dangerous. But it worked for Sherlock.

He had no problems getting into the ward.

"Sherlock, you're here," John said. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be here. This was off limits to well refugees, but John sounded relieved, and was knelt over another that Sherlock couldn't see. His token. "Did you see him?"

"I had a chat with Moriarty, yes. It was quite elucidating. He said you let him in." It wasn't intended as accusatory, but by John's set jaw it was construed as such. "He also said he brought a gift."

"Yeah, well, your gift just passed out. It might be a bit before you get to talk to him." Sherlock moved closer to see.

Ah, so it had been Lestrade.

Good.

Perhaps for the best.

There were only two choices that Moriarty would be able to use that would allow him access into the Compound with John on guard. There had been a chance that it was Mycroft, but it made more sense for it to be Lestrade. Moriarty and Lestrade had never met. Lestrade would be easier to manipulate. In any case, John liked Lestrade better. Had Moriarty brought them Mycroft, John would have still shot Moriarty. And what would two Holmes serve to him? No, it had to be Lestrade. Foolish to think otherwise. Besides, Mycroft would have been too heavy for him to carry had his leg been in that state.

"You look disappointed," John noticed.

"Don't be ridiculous. I am pleased Lestrade managed to make it through. This is good."

"And Moriarty—"

"Has only changed the pace. He's mad; he may think that he has the control here, but he will soon learn otherwise. But I will not allow him any advantage. The sooner the cure is created, the less danger you will be in." He hadn't really meant to say the last part.

"What?"

Topic change.

"Speaking of, there is something I need to discuss with you. It concerns Anderson."

"Did you get your file back?"

"Yes."

Exasperated, "So what is it now?"

"There had been a development. And a deal has been made. Anderson wants to help create the cure. Either I let him or he reveals my research; that I am using contaminated blood."

John paled. "Does he know—"

"Not yet. But if he works with me, he will. There is no doubt. It would be unacceptable that you were unable to assist me as you were because of this fear." John scrubbed a hand over his face (apparently without realizing that he'd just smeared a bit of Lestrade's blood on his cheek. Sherlock would tell him of this later).

"Are you sure? Can't you just blow him off or something?"

"Not worth the risk."

The doctor looked uncertain. "What are you asking me?"

"If you would allow Anderson to know or if you rather I eliminate the problem."

"Eliminate the—no, Sherlock, no. Just—no." He took a deep breath, probably counting in his head. "This has really been one _hell_ of a day, considering." He waved his hand. "Just do what you have to do. _Don't_ hurt him."

"I can assure you it would be painless."

"_Sherlock_."

"Yes, fine."

Adapt. Sherlock was adapting. John was not. Moral systems of the past should be modified to compensate for new environments. Only those that were able to assimilate would be able to live. But not John. He was strong, and the strong could live as they will.

That was how Anderson began working with Sherlock towards the cure.

* * *

><p>Day one of the new arrangement consisted of a lot of questions and frustrations.<p>

"Wait, what? You're kidding me, right? _Him?_ No, there's no way _he's_ the one that's infected." Anderson was pointing at John as if he were one condemned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went about their room, gathering the notes that he'd thrown in a fit of temper the night before. "It shouldn't surprise you. No one else would willingly work with me, especially if I were to be using them for experiments. It's obvious, really."

"I just didn't think—I mean, I didn't think that it was someone—"

"Yes, I know it's insane. But it's a resource," John placated. "We can use it. And if we're careful, then no one will be endangered. We wouldn't be near this close to a cure without it."

Anderson balked, "You're barmy. Gone completely 'round the bend. You work in the ward of all places!"

"Yes, I am aware."

Sherlock sniffed loudly.

"You're endangering _everyone_," Anderson elaborated.

Was it really such a hard concept to accept? Better guess that the forensics specialist was just being moronic.

"I'm _saving_ people," John argued, standing firm. Anderson wavered. "Now, will you help us? The sooner we can find the cure, the sooner I don't have to watch my bloody canteen like it's a hand grenade."

"Wait, why—"

"Saliva," Sherlock answered, now off the floor with an armful of papers. John sent him a withered look that he pretended not to see. They'd gone over this argument before, but John refused to bring up what he considered 'Sherlock's Psychotic Break.'* It really hadn't been as much of a dilemma as he was making it out to be.

"Right, I'll keep that in mind." A tense moment in which Anderson shook his head and paced, John took a seat at the foot of the bed, and Sherlock shifted to cover the exit, just in case. He made sure his hands were out of his pockets. "Yes, well, I suppose if you two haven't set the place ablaze yet, me helping couldn't make anything worse. I'll do it."

"Brilliant," Sherlock droned, not sounding thrilled in the least. He stepped away from the door. "What blood type are you?"

Anderson's face scrunched. "O positive, why?"

Sherlock paused. "Fantastic. Yes, you actually could be of some use."

"I thought that was the _point_."

"No, the point was to not have to deal with a body and to assuage John's guilt. Now you could actually have a purpose. Give me your arm." He had procured a blade and was holding his hand out expectantly. John took notice to the litany of tiny cuts but didn't say anything.

"So you can do what? Get away from me with that thing! I'm not going to let you blood-let me."

"Stop being difficult. I just need a bit."

"Sherlock, come on. At least give the man a chance to acclimate a bit before you jump him."

Sherlock snarled. "Yes, _by all means_, take your time. You have the rest of your life, after all." He pushed past them both. "Come find me when _you_ are ready."

John exhaled through pursed lips. He had a point, but it couldn't be helped. They needed to have Anderson on their side. Bombarding him wouldn't help matters.

"Not even the bleeding zombie apocalypse could make him grow up," Anderson reflected with a hint of amused derision.

John counted to ten in his head and was just thankful that he was no longer the only lab rat in their cage.

* * *

><p>On day five Lestrade was improved enough to try to move around. He insisted on being able to get out of the ward as soon as possible to try to see The Compound. Surprisingly, it wasn't John that convinced him otherwise, but Sherlock.<p>

"There is absolutely nothing interesting to see out there. Dull people going about a dull existence doing nothing other than what they deem as useful. It's essentially London as it was set back a few years."

"Very funny. I know you have had time to get desensitized to it all, but I have been alone with Brooke for almost two months. I want to see people. Interact with someone else. I've been deprived of it."

"Trust me, you do not wish to get to know these people. Consider yourself lucky that you have not had to interact with them on a daily basis."

"They can't be that horrible, and it's not just that. I want to know how everything runs around here. I need to get to know the new environment."

"It can wait. As I said, there is nothing of value waiting to greet you out there. And more than likely you will be under severe scrutiny for a period of time before they adjust to you. It would be best to wait until you are in a better condition, should you need it."

"Sounds like you're speaking from experience. This has something to do with that guy at the gate, doesn't it?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "It would be in your best interest to be inactive for a time. Once they hold an impression on you, they do not change."

"Is that what happened?"

Sherlock didn't answer. "Will you stay put?"

"Yeah, alright. But I don't promise for long."

* * *

><p>On day seven, John was in the ward when Fredrik came in with a bleeding nose. He was coughing erratically and with watering eyes, trying to breathe through the blood and having a miserable time at it.<p>

"Hell, mate, what happened to you?"

When he wasn't given a response, John ushered him inside.

That was when Lestrade came in the door, cradling some scraped knuckles. He took one look at John and Fredrik and turned tail the other direction. It didn't take Sherlock to put two and two together.

But Sherlock, bent over his notes and radio, was infinitely amused when John told him about it later that night.

He even promised to give Lestrade a gift in return.

* * *

><p>On day nine, John found Sherlock carting Lestrade in a wheelbarrow.<p>

"Should I even ask?"

"He wanted to see the library."

"And the wheelbarrow? Why not just support him?"

"I can't feel my left hand."

_"Why?"_

"Testing a hypothesis. Adverse reaction. Anderson is on rotation."

"Right, and you?"

Sheepishly, Lestrade answered, "Just wanted some fresh air."

John nodded, because this was supposed to make perfect sense. "I'll leave you to it, then."

* * *

><p>Day ten revealed that, despite the previous suspicious inactivity on Moriarty's part, the man was in no way idle. He'd managed to throw a wrench into The Compound's workings. And it had been in the form of rotations.<p>

Anderson was furious. "No way in hell. I was on rotation yesterday. It is not my time to go. Find someone else."

"Everyone else is busy or already on rotation. We need you to help Brooke learn the ropes on his first shift," said Daniel. Daniel was an older, surly man that essentially handled the rotation's scheduling. He'd been good—very good—at this until now. He didn't hold a bias against anyone, and understood simple principles such as how Sherlock could only go on rotation with John, and that no one should have to be on rotation more than three days between their last shift. No one argued with him, as there had never been a reason to, before. He ran a good system.

"Find someone else. This is ridiculous. There has to be someone else that can go."

"Sherlock," Daniel deadpanned. It was reasoning enough. "Look, it will only be for a short shift. As soon as someone else can exchange for you, I will have them do so."

Brooke stepped up behind Daniel, all wide eyes and nervous smiles.

"Yes, thank you," Brooke said, shaking Anderson's hand. Anderson, not knowing what else to do, nodded and returned the grin. "I know you probably have better things to be doing."

"Um, well, no. I-I don't suppose it couldn't wait."

Brooke's eyes glittered. "Fantastic. I look forward to learning a lot from you, then."

* * *

><p>Day eleven lead to a certain...fluffy discovery.<p>

"Is that a kitten? How did a _kitten_ manage to get into The Compound?" John asked.

The little creature was buried in the folds of Sherlock's coat, mewling softly. Sherlock was excited.

"I found it at the wall. I was attempting to find Anderson, but this works just as well."

A kitten as an equal commodity as a lab partner. "I really don't see how—"

"Think, John! How many animals have you seen around The Compound, or in the general area since the outbreak?"

"Well, there's plenty of vermin running around. I guess I haven't really seen much else."

Sherlock was grinning and stroking the kitten's grey fur with nervous fingers. John withheld the urge to make a Doctor Evil joke.

"I think an answer may lie with the animals, John. Or the problem, therefore. It makes sense."

No, it really didn't.

"Right. What are you going to do, then?"

"Test the theory," Sherlock said. And then he, kitten (which would come to be named Conan) and all were off toward the labs, fervently muttering something about the Black Plague.

John hoped beyond all hope that the kitten wouldn't end up in a dissection tray.

* * *

><p>On day fourteen, Sherlock had manipulated Anderson into letting him draw a pint of blood. The man was flat on his back, eyes closed, and blood draining out through a tube in his arm.<p>

John really couldn't be to blame for first assuming that Sherlock had actually killed him.

Which is why he nearly jumped out of his skin when Anderson lurched upright.

"Jesus, John! Some warning would be nice! I didn't hear you come in." His pallor was a mix of the blood loss and panic, but it made him look positively ghastly.

"So you caved, did you?" John admonished, though was not surprised.

"It was either let him do it now or risk that he would just sneak up on me and knock me out to get it. Damned persistent."

John looked at the jar the tube fed into. That was still quite a bit of blood.

"And you're letting him only take this much, right? You know as well as I do that if you give too much that you can _die_."

Anderson rolled his eyes. "Thanks a lot for that, doc, but I'm not going to let him kill me for my blood."

Like he would have a choice in the matter if Sherlock decided differently.

"What does he need your blood for, anyways?"

"Hell if I know. I get the feeling I'm here more for donations than contributions." He ran a shaking hand through his matted, sweaty hair, and lay back down on the table.

To be fair, John was just surprised that he figured out that much so quickly. It personally took him much longer.

* * *

><p>It was quite early on the sixteenth morning and John had decided to head to the ward much sooner than usual. The sun was only just the thinnest of outlines against the trees; hardly enough light to even see by, and made it hard to distinguish outlines and shadows as he passed them.<p>

Which is why he nearly missed the figure of Jim Moriarty slipping through the hallways, towards the weapon storage.

Almost.

"Hey! Get back here!" John yelled, not caring who he might awaken at the early hour. Moriarty took off down the hall, but was forced to come to a halt when he reached the end, surrounded by locked doors. He turned and faced John, lazy smile with just a hint of teeth.

"Looks like you got me, soldier." He raised his hands in mock surrender.

"What do you think you're doing in here, Moriarty?"

"Shush, the ones who believe you might be listening." The criminal chuckled. "It's really quite a powerless feeling, isn't it? Having everyone believe a lie, when you know the truth. Which makes me wonder, Johnny-boy, why not just tell them? Seems you've made quite a name for yourself, here. And in these times, trust is power, isn't it?" His eyes trailed over John's face, and it caused the hairs on his neck to rise. "Do you enjoy your power? You know, the funny thing about power, though, is the way it _turns_ people. It's an advantage, and who wouldn't use that for their benefit? I know I would." His face grew grave, and that almost put John on edge more than the manic smile. "Imagine all the _secrets_ you can hide without them batting an eye."

John snarled.

"Get the hell out of here."

A chuckle. "Meow, kitty. Retract the claws. I'm not the threat, here."

The sound of Moriarty's shoes padding confidently away was drowned in the roaring of his blood in his ears and the weight of the world slipping through his fingers.

* * *

><p>On the nineteenth day, no progress was made. When Sherlock entered into the labs they had commandeered, every beaker and slide was broken into a gleaming symphony on the floor; every paper was shredded into a fine snow-like layer about the desks and chairs.<p>

"Bloody hell, what happened?" asked John. Sherlock stood stock still, eyes darting all the damaged supplies. Nearly everything in the room had been destroyed in what appeared to be a stampede. Both of them knew better. "Moriarty had something to do with this, didn't he?"

The muscles in Sherlock's jaw clenched, and John gave credence to the very real possibility that this might lead to something very violent.

Sherlock spoke briskly, "It doesn't matter. There was nothing here. All of my research, my progress is either with myself, at the dorm, or with Anderson. There are other science classrooms. This was merely an intimidation." His fist clenched and unclenched at his side. "It changes _nothing_," he finished, and stalked out.

It was a display of power, is what it was. Moriarty's display of power.

Message received.

* * *

><p>Day twenty-one was the day Sherlock had his epiphany.<p>

Sherlock was lying on his bed, glaring at the ceiling while Conan purred, nestled into a soft ball on his stomach.

It was damned comedic how strange they looked together. It was difficult to take the severe glare Sherlock bore seriously when stroking the cuddly mass atop him.

John was snarking to himself, as quietly as he could, until Sherlock interrupted him.

"John," he whispered, almost sounding in awe. John's mirth subsided when he met Sherlock's eyes. "_That's it_." He leaped to his feet (arms full of startled kitten) and gave a triumphant laugh. "Yes! That was it! That would be sure to work!"

John eyed the terrified animal as Sherlock gallivanted about the room, lost in whatever mania had just taken him. "What would be sure to work?"

Sherlock grinned at him broadly, but did not answer. "I just have to test it. It was so _simple_, John, how could we have missed it?"

It was only 'we' when something was missed, wasn't it?

"Test on _who_, Sherlock? Don't do something stupid and go testing on yourself."

Sherlock gave him a look of tried patience. "My options are very limited, John. Who am I to test it on? Anderson? His system is too weak from the blood loss to get an acceptable gauge of the formula's results." He really had no one but himself to blame for that. "You are useless," _Hey_, now! "as you are already immune. Besides myself, who could I use? Conan?" He paused, briefly, to set the kitten out of his arms (and Conan immediately skittered away, out of the madman's reach). "This is it, John."

The doctor's heart was beating just a bit faster.

"Are you sure?"

His lips quirked. "Only one way to find out."

* * *

><p>Between days twenty-three and twenty-five, John saw nothing of both Sherlock and Anderson.<p>

Somehow, between that time, one of his water canteens went missing.

* * *

><p>Day twenty-six:<p>

"Let me in! God dammit, let me get past!"

John knocked the wailing teen to the ground and attempted to pin him there, but lost his hold when he struggled. The boy set him off balance by kicking him in the shoulder.

He was trying to get into the ward—into the weapons storage.

"What do you think you're doing?!" John caught his ankles, tripping the boy up and sending him to his knees. This time, the doctor managed to hold him there.

The boy sobbed, "Let me _go!_ You don't understand; I need to get _in there_."

"You know as well as everyone you can't! _Why?_ Why do you need in there?" The boy was shivering like he'd touched a live wire. It made John anxious. What was this kid's name? He'd been so quiet before now. Why today?

"The guns. Everyone needs the guns. It's _inside_, now. Oh please, you've got to let me through!"

"What's inside?"

"The virus!"

John's blood ran cold.

"What do you—"

"_Please!_ Just let me up. No one's safe, anymore. The virus has gotten inside." Whatever he might have said after that was lost in the wail the boy emitted as he collapsed to the dirt. John released him, but the child did not attempt to escape again; he just cried into the dirt, arms wrapped tightly around his shivering body.

The commotion brought on several onlookers, despite the lateness of the hour.

"Is everything alright here?" a man asked. "What was the kid saying about the virus?"

"Just," John said, shakily, "a little scared, is all. The heat messing with his head and not enough water." He licked his lips nervously. "Would you mind, uh, taking him home? He's not making much sense now, but I'm sure he'll feel better once he's gotten some rest."

The man nodded, bending to scoop the boy into his arms. Small hands wound round his thick neck, little body still trembling. A smile to John and the two left.

John almost felt ill at how easily they all trusted him. He felt even more sick at the idea that the child must have heard about the virus _somewhere_. And he had a pretty good idea where.

When John returned to the dorm, Conan was lying dead on the floor, an empty saucer by the door. He could have been sleeping.

John wished he were sleeping.

* * *

><p>And then there was day twenty-eight.<p>

"Bloody idiot," John seethed, pulling Sherlock's coat. Sherlock sat in silence as he was seated on the desk top, Lestrade by his side, and John bustling about him. "You have never heard of the word 'caution' in your life, it would seem. As in _use gloves_ when working with hazardous materials and carry a bloody knife with you when you're going to be alone. Self-preservation. It would do you some good to learn it."

The glass shards in Sherlock's palm hurt quite a bit, but he didn't say anything.

Lestrade was looking at the mess on the floor warily. "What were you even working on, Sherlock?" He toed a larger piece of glass from the beaker and a small amount of what was left of his solution slid to the floor. A flare of outrage seared hot in Sherlock, but he looked back to his palm, from which John was scrutinizing. He ignored Lestrade's question.

"I need gloves. And antiseptic," John sighed, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead. He took a swig of his water canteen and set it on the table so that he could take back Sherlock's hand. Sherlock nodded minutely, still feeling hollow in his core. His mind was reeling too fast for him to keep up with. Why did Lestrade have to be here? He needed to talk to John. He needed to be alone with him so that they could figure out where to go from here. "Will you at least tell me who it was that tried to do it this time?" John pleaded.

Richard Brooke, in the Science Lab, with one Joseph Stanton.

Cluedo was still a ridiculous game.

"No," he said, instead. John scowled at him. There was no point getting riled up over it now. It was a waste of time. They had so much more they needed to focus on.

"Lestrade, can you watch him for me? I'm going to make a run to the ward. Just make sure he doesn't do anything stupid while I'm out?" Lestrade gave him the affirmative, and John clapped his shoulder lightly. "And if anyone comes back, take this." John handed Lestrade his pistol. The DI took it without question.

Sherlock felt a sort of panic come over him. He reached out and caught John's coat sleeve with his uninjured hand. "John, don't. I did it, John. I know I did. I just have to try again."

John's face paled in what Sherlock imagined was shock. Yes, now he understood the gravity of the situation. Time was a commodity they did not possess.

"I won't be long. Hold on." And John left. Sherlock hung his head and glared at the hand in his lap. Bits of the broken glass still protruded obscenely from torn skin. It was really quite painful. And debilitating. He didn't have _time_ for this. He should just tear it out and be done with it. But then there was the blood to deal with. He could always use his scarf to staunch it, however. But then he'd have to deal with the bulk around his hand. He needed proper bandaging. And he liked that scarf.

Lestrade was talking to him.

"—I know you don't much care for how everyone else is treating you, but you might want to take into consideration the length some of them might be willing to go to. This is new to me, and I haven't been 'round long enough to see some of the things John's said they've done—" Boring. Their attempts at bullying him into behaving would only work to an extent. And only because it suited him better for them to leave him well enough alone. Retaliation would only draw more attention to himself and that was the last thing he wanted. John and Lestrade's sense of retribution held no appeal to him. The altercations would never go so far as to antagonize John enough to leave. He was too valuable, which made Sherlock valuable. They couldn't risk hurting him to the extent the doctor and the DI feared. _Boring_.

"I have no more to discuss on the matter, Lestrade. If you have any useful input, then share it, but as you don't I would recommend keeping your blathering to yourself." Perhaps that was a bit cruel, but he was not in the mood to try to play nice. He needed John to get back. Lestrade bit back whatever retort he planned on making, face red with the effort. He had good intentions; they were just ineffectual to Sherlock's purpose.

"How you've managed this long..." Lestrade muttered to himself, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention to him. Perhaps he should have been, as it was only after the sound of the metallic cap of John's canteen being unscrewed that he was brought out of his head. Lestrade brushed his hand over his mouth and set the canteen back down. That one. That was the one that had gone missing.

"What did you do?" Sherlock whispered.

"It's just water. We have enough of it from the river. I'm sure John won't mind."

"You drank from his. You don't understand. You drank from John's canteen. How long have you had it?"

Oh John, why had you chosen _now_ to be so careless?

Lestrade put his hands up as a sign of peace. "Sorry. I won't touch the water again, I swear. For God's sake, as if we don't have enough to worry about without the threat of a little cold virus. I didn't even know it was John's."

It was really much worse than that.

If only he had his _formula_.

"You have very much more to worry about than a cold. Lestrade, I need you to sit down. Where did you get the canteen? How are you feeling?"

Sherlock was standing now and ushering Lestrade to sit back, though the DI was being quite uncooperative. "Brooke," he said. "I feel fine. Why? You're acting strange." Sherlock didn't say anything, but took the pistol from Lestrade's belt. A bead of sweat welled up on Lestrade's temple. "It's warm in here," he huffed. A sign of the virus? Possibly. But there was the chance that John didn't drink from that canteen, or that it had been washed. The virus can last in deceased organic matter for five days and in inorganic matter for three. There was the chance that it had already died off before Lestrade had taken a drink from it.

Lestrade's susceptibility to the heat could be due, still, to his weakened physical state from his leg injury. But then why not before? Had he shown any signs before drinking? Sherlock wished he had paid more attention.

"Talk to me. I need you to keep talking to me."

"Goddammit, Sherlock, what's gotten into you?"

Pupils were dilated despite the light in the room, breathing laboured, increased blood pressure, inflammation of the eye sockets (possibly due to lack of sleep, possibly due to the spreading of the infection).

Sherlock pried the DI's eyes open. They were clouding. "How's your eyesight?"

"Fyion," the man slurred.

"What?"

"I said it was fine!"

"Speech degradation." Lestrade completely failed at knocking Sherlock's hand away from his face, instead swatting empty air over the detective's shoulder. "Impaired coordination. Accelerated decomposition of higher brain function."

The man blinked rapidly; an attempt to clear the haze. His brow furrowed when it did not, Sherlock assumed. The brain was most likely slowing down, now, making it harder to process the situation. "Sherlock? Sherlock, what's happening?" He closed his eyes, and shook his head. "Fuck, the heat must be getting to me. Tired."

Sherlock chose not to say anything to that, and instead held Lestrade's shoulders to balance him. What to do? At this stage, there wouldn't be enough time to get him outside The Compound. He needed to be sequestered for the inevitable change. They couldn't have more than minutes left.

Damn it all.

Why did this have to happen _now?_ He'd been so close! If Lestrade had just held off for just a little longer, then—inconsequential. It was all inconsequential at this point. Adapt to the situation. And in this case, the grim termination of it.

Lestrade wheezed: throat muscles contracting involuntarily. Lestrade was lost. There was no more time.

"Sh'lk. Vrse mn ma bran, snit?"

"Yes," Sherlock deadpanned. Whatever he just said didn't matter. John would probably care, though. Last words. Sentiment. Lestrade was still trying to talk and Sherlock was mostly positive that if one's final words were gibberish then they did not count. So Sherlock spoke to him, instead. There was no rule saying that one's last words must be spoken by the person, yes? Words spoken _to_ them could also count. Perhaps not, but it was all he was going to get.

He stopped talking when Lestrade's head lolled forward.

Funny how Sherlock's own safety never crossed his mind until the former DI started making lunges at him.

Sherlock fumbled for the pistol in his belt. He hissed in pain when the recently forgotten glass shards in his palm dragged across the butt of the weapon. The pain was making his arm quake. Time lost. Other hand. The noises coming from Lestrade's throat were making the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand on end. He wasn't proficient in shooting left-handed. Really, he wasn't proficient in shooting at all, despite what might be argued. He had John for that. God, where was John?

Time lost.

Lestrade kept scrambling for any purchase of Sherlock, and more than once managing to snag the detective's coat. Unlike when the virus was still setting in, the movements of the man were now quick and wild—that would be the adrenaline. Inconvenient. A round from the pistol was fired and grazed the now-zombie's shoulder. It did nothing to slow him down. And then a misjudged grab threw Sherlock off balance for just a moment, the desk behind him closer than he expected and thus not enough room to dodge, and Lestrade much too close.

Everything happened at once:

Teeth sunk deep into the meat of Sherlock's hand; once white, stained red, grinding into spears of glass.

Saliva seeped from a gaping jowl, frothing.

The gun discharged, painting grey hair.

And then silence.

Lestrade fell to the floor, but Sherlock could not bring himself to look when he heard the man's skull connect to the ground; he could not bear to see the slackened features and glazed eyes. Blood wept from the serrated skin and fell to the blur below. He removed the blue scarf from around his neck mechanically and wrapped it around the bite. Wasted time. How much time left?

Enough to get out of The Compound. More? John couldn't know. Not until he was sure. It wasn't yet dark; the rotation would be changing soon. He just needed to get out. His formula...John would need to hide it. Anderson would have to help him (God, please let the man be competent enough for this).

A chance. There was always a chance—

"Oh, God. Sherlock."

John.

How much time?


	8. I: Flatline

"Oh, God. Sherlock."

John's gaze flickered between Sherlock and Lestrade with eyes pulled wide by disbelief and confusion. There was no time for an explanation. A half hour for the virus to invade; ten minutes for the change itself. Approximately. They needed to get outside The Compound as fast as they possibly could, and with as few witnesses as possible, should this escapade end with one less than it began.

Now what to do with the body.

Sherlock shoved the pistol and the spilled canteen from the desk into a startled John's slack hands that already held antiseptic and tweezers.

"We're taking him with us," Sherlock declared.

John looked at him like a fish. "We're doing_ what?_"

"Don't play stupid, John. There's no time." The detective took his scarf from around his hand and placed it around the DI's head, creating both an unneeded blindfold as well as a much-needed covering for the gaping head wound at the back of his skull. The fresh blood was seeping though, mixing with the stains from Sherlock's own blood, but it would have to do. Sherlock frowned. He really had liked that scarf.

"Sherlock, are you going to tell me what happened?"

"No, now grab him. We're going to the wall." John moved, too slowly, by first setting down the pistol and canteen on the lab table. "No, bring that. You might need it."

"What for?"

"Just in case. Come _on_. We haven't got all day." He lifted Lestrade's dead weight and hoisted him up. John shoved the contents in his hands into the pockets of his jumper, then braced his back to Sherlock, who proceeded to dump the dead man onto the soldier's shoulders. Hm. The DI's jacket had a hood. Convenient. For good measure, Sherlock tugged it over Lestrade's head. Yes, that was much better. If only he'd realized that before sacrificing his scarf.

He ignored the impulse to take back the soiled cloth.

"Jesus Christ, how did it come to this? I was only gone for ten minutes, at most." John was panicking. They needed a strong bravado to get out without notice. This wouldn't do.

"John, listen to me. I will explain everything when there's time, but for now I need you to keep your head." Poor choice of words, he realized in hindsight when the doctor's lips thinned. "It's almost nightfall, which means the rotation will be switching any minute. We need to take the place of one of those on shift. Do you trust me?"

John laughed, and it made Sherlock's mouth taste like ash. "Trust is a funny thing, isn't it?"

"Not now. I need you to focus. I need you to_ trust me._ Can you do that?"

John closed his eyes. "Yes, yes of course I can," he said.

A sharp nod. "Good, now come with me. We'll seal off the lab, and then we'll move out."

John did not ask why it had to be sealed.

* * *

><p>The sun had sunk below the blackened hills, leaving the world grey as the last vestiges of light began to die. At this time of early night, no one who was not on rotation was outside of their rooms.<p>

John looked around. "There's the two going on. So what—" John started, interrupted by Sherlock walking straight by him, out of the darkness, behind the two men. "Sherlock, wait!"

But the detective strode on behind the two figures in complete silence, body direct with purpose. John recognized the man Sherlock was walking behind as Joseph Stanton: one of the ration moderators. Not the brightest bloke, but amiable enough. The other John didn't know by name. Small, and with wide, bright eyes. A bit flighty. They had never talked much. Sherlock was practically on their heels, now. John wanted to go after him, but kept to the shadows that concealed him. What the hell was Sherlock planning? He thought the goal of this exchange was to go _unnoticed_. Somehow, that did not look to be the conclusion of this encounter.

Especially not with the way Sherlock just drove Joseph's head into the building wall.

Sherlock immediately turned his attention to the other man, who had not even been able to recover from his shock well enough to attempt to lift his weapon. "This man had a bad fall over the uneven ground. A night's rest in his dorm and some plasters for the broken skin and he'll be fine. You will take him, and we will cover your patrol. Questions?"

The poor man looked ready to keel over into the dirt, if the contractions of his chest were any indicator.

"No, no. I-I'll just take him back now. Fo-for his fall. Um, here." He handed Sherlock his handgun, and stumbled when he attempted to support Joseph's weight, but his fear of Sherlock must have given him a source of strength. They tottered back down the path, and John emerged from the shadows.

"Intimidation can work wonders," John huffed. "Was that necessary?"

Sherlock smirked. "Entirely." He held up a small, silver pocket-watch with his left hand. "Besides, I needed this. Now come along."

* * *

><p>The change between shifts went by effortlessly. John held back, out of sight with the body slung over his back, and watched the two leave. When they were safely out of sight, he walked forward.<p>

"Alright, we're here. Now what?"

Sherlock leaned against the concrete wall. "Now we're here," he said. He didn't offer up any more than that. John worried his lips but didn't press further.

"What do we do with him?" he asked, instead, shifting Lestrade's weight on his shoulders.

The detective scrunched up his face like he'd just realized the situation. Apparently he had completely forgotten the issue of the corpse being toted on John's back. "I will take him. You stay here until I come back."

"Whoa, wait. You're not going out there by yourself, you lunatic. Not a chance."

"Don't be difficult. I won't be but a moment." He reached out his hand; his right hand. Even in the dimming light, John could make out the damaged skin. How long had it been like that?

"What the hell happened to your hand, Sherlock?" The doctor tried to grab his wrist, but Sherlock retracted it too quickly. Sherlock never had been a willing patient, but to not even mention the wound to his dominant hand was creating a weight in John's stomach. Why hadn't he noticed earlier? It was the same hand he'd damaged in the labs. But as far as he'd known, no one but Sherlock and Lestrade had been there since he'd left. So the wound must have been caused by them. By Lestrade. The canteen in his jacket pocket was searing his side in recognition. Lestrade must have had his canteen. Oh God, had Lestrade been drinking from it? "Sherlock, was Lestrade infect—"

"Not now, John. We don't have time. Give him to me, and we shall discuss it when I return."

That _when_ was seeming a whole lot more like an _if_ right about now.

Not knowing what else to do (what else was there to do at this point?), John handed off Lestrade's body and watched Sherlock disappear into the trees. In his absence, John fretted. How long ago had Lestrade attacked him? The statistics were droning in his head. Just from when he had come back to find them to their current position must have taken fifteen to twenty minutes. For all he knew, Sherlock could be _turning_ at this very moment.

And that thought sent a spike of unadulterated fear through his core.

That's what was happening, wasn't it? Sherlock was going to turn into one of them. The one person that he had left was going to die. And he'd just left to go let it happen on his own.

Not bloody likely.

Blinded both by panic at what was happening as well as rage for its occurrence, John set off after him. He'd headed in the direction of the open graveyard to dispose of Lestrade's body. It was out of the way of the main gates, but not a great distance, within a tight cluster of trees: a respectable place to bury their deceased. There had been twelve pre-dug graves three weeks ago. There had been three deaths since then. Lestrade made the fourth. Sherlock, quite possibly the fifth. John ran faster.

A branch caught at John's sleeve in his haste, tearing through the fabric and nicking skin, but did nothing to lessen the relief that barraged him at the sight of Sherlock's long coat. The detective was resolutely standing before an open grave, eyes trained down to his bitten hand that held the silver pocket-watch. His other held the pistol. He didn't move as John approached him from behind. Didn't he hear his footsteps?

"Sherlock?" called John, tentatively. It was almost completely dark, now. The gate was unguarded, and that was highly dangerous. It would be all too easy for one of _them_ to get in through the darkness. They needed to get back. But first, he needed to be with Sherlock.

"Twenty-seven minutes," he murmured. "Since initial contamination, it has been approximately twenty-seven minutes. If anything is going to happen, it is going to happen presently." He did not look at John, only at the pocket-watch's ticking hand, barely visible in the low light.

"And you were going to leave me back there?" John demanded, hurt; he couldn't help it.

This time Sherlock spared him a sharp glance. "There was no reason for you to be out here. Lestrade is taken care of. You should be guarding the gate in case I cannot make it back to aid you."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," John hissed. His throat was tightening around his words, making him rasp. "There was no way in hell I was going to just let you come out here to _die alone_. Why...why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It would not have helped matters had you known. We needed to get Lestrade out of The Compound before he was discovered; myself, likewise. There was no way to know exactly how much time was needed before the virus would spread through my system. I could not afford for your denial to slow us down."

John wanted to refute him, but he stopped short. Because more than anything, he wanted to deny all of it. He would lose Sherlock. And now that he knew exactly how imminent that fate was, he was paralyzed. He looked to the open grave at Sherlock's feet. "How much longer do I have with you? Have...I mean, do you...?"

The gun cocked, thunderously loud in their shared space. "I am not sure," Sherlock said with a quiet voice. "The adrenaline might be the virus, or it may be due to my own fear. I do not know how to distinguish it." He raised the gun, slowly. Oh god, was he going to shoot himself? Was he going to commit suicide right before John's eyes? Sherlock bowed his head, away from John's horrified face. "I did not want you here for this, John. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself on my own."

"For God's sake, _Sherlock_—"

"I would prefer if you were to go back. Please," he insisted. "Thirty-two minutes."

Thirty minutes for the invasion, ten for the turn.

John had made his decision. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock made no other attempts at persuasion. He kept staring at the watch. John did the same.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

Thirty-five.

There didn't appear to be any change. Shouldn't there have been a change?

"Sherlock?"

"...perhaps..."

Thirty-nine.

Forty.

What was going on?

The watch was lowered, as well as the pistol. A hesitant smile spread the detective's face as he turned to John. "It's confirmed, then. It truly works."

Wait, what?

"...the cure? You mean, you took the cure before you were bitten?" And he'd _known_ this. Again, without telling John.

Sherlock nodded and exhaled loudly, pleased with himself at this turn of events.

John didn't know what to think; the emotional turmoil he'd just been subjected to not being able to find an outlet. He was confused and happy and angry and scared and relieved all at one time.

So he punched Sherlock in the face.

* * *

><p>"Have you got everything?" Sherlock asked from his place at his desk. The radio was quiet in the room, turned low so that John could gather his wits. It had been this way for little over an hour, in which time John <em>properly<em> cared for the bite to Sherlock's hand, as well as the spreading bruise to the side of his face. The lingering shards of glass that had been embedded in his flesh gleamed in the desk light, and the purpling skin around his left eye cast into shadow. John did not feel in the slightest bit guilty for that mark. The radio murmured softly:

_"The virus...violent outbursts...infected subjects. Get away..."_ The radio was overtaken with static. Sherlock toyed with the dial._ "...isolate them...secure area..."_ The message did not get any clearer.

John was toying with laces of his shoe. "Should we get Anderson? He has been a part of this, after all."

Sherlock huffed, still attempting to find a stronger signal on the radio. John wanted to just turn the damn thing off. They already found a cure, hadn't they? There really wasn't a point in listening to any more archaic broadcasts. "If he wants to claim credit, then he can. We're not going to wait. The sooner we can reproduce the cure, the sooner we can distribute it."

"Right. Good. So now, then?"

A nod. "Yes, now."

Sherlock rose from his chair and replaced his coat from off the bed. His neck looked too bare without his scarf, John noted. Ensuring his browning was still safe in his belt, he followed the detective through the door.

Neither bothered to turn down the radio still sputtering a garbled message:

_"Please, response...survivors here...everything in our power...to be...meet...contact...oft...continue...listen..."_

The door clicked shut.

* * *

><p>John felt a bit like the town crier at that moment. Perhaps fifty of the few hundred people within The Compound were there in the gym, shuffling about themselves. Why did it have to be him up here, again? He hated having all of this focus on him. Sherlock was watching from behind John, eyes trained on the many refugees about them. He looked just about as apprehensive as John felt, and that really wasn't very reassuring.<p>

Someone from the group was calling him.

"John, what are we doing here? It's the middle of the night. We should all be in our dorms."

The former soldier squared his shoulders, and then returned, "Yes, well, we have something to tell you all that couldn't wait—"

A woman from somewhere on John's right huffed. "We? For Christ's sake, don't say you've been roped into one of his mad strategies to get us all killed—"

His skin was feeling a bit too warm with his rising indignation towards those remarks. Usually, they wouldn't say something about Sherlock so directly to his face, but now was not the time to be affronted. People were starting to talk amongst themselves, already losing interest in what he had to say.

"No, look, it's got nothing to do with finding a cure. Because we've found one."

Immediate silence.

"What?" someone questioned. "What do you mean you've _found_ a cure?"

John had to resist the urge to look back to Sherlock for camaraderie. It had to be him leading this, it had already been discussed. Only John could win their trust and cooperation in this.

"I mean exactly that: we've found the cure. A way to stop people from turning."

Disbelief was written plain on all of their faces. Shock.

"But how?" called another. Small smiles were creeping onto some of their faces, now. Maybe it wouldn't be so hard to garner their commitment towards this effort as they had originally anticipated.

"We've been working on it since the beginning. It has taken a lot of time, but we managed. And now we just need to replicate it, and we can start to distribute it—"

A voice rose above his. "No, how, _exactly_, did you make this cure?" It was Moriarty. The snake of a man was standing in the centre of their crowd, looking for the better part scared and sceptical. What role was he playing this time?

John fumbled. "Look, I really can't explain all of that right now. It was a long process and—"

"But in order to create a cure, you must have been _working_ with the virus, right?" Moriarty continued. John's adrenaline spiked. He now had a feeling of where the actor was going with this line of questioning. "That means you brought the virus _in here_, right?"

Many were looking at him, aghast.

"The virus is inside?" a woman cried, shrilly. "You brought the virus inside?"

"That doesn't matter anymore!" John tried to reason. Moriarty couldn't get the upper hand in this; they were too close! "The cure—"

"How do you even know it works?" Moriarty challenged. The people around him had formed a small circle and were giving him their unwavering attention. "Have you tried it on yourself? Has Sherlock?" Many faces turned stony at his name. Not good. "For all we know, we could infect ourselves with_ your cure._"

"We have tested it!" John retorted, desperately. "We know it works, which is why we need to administer it as soon as possible!"

"So you've infected yourselves?" Moriarty blanched, completely convincingly. But his eyes shone with delight that made John's blood run cold. "And you stayed in The Compound, around all of us that are not cured. It's not even just that you brought the virus inside, but you deliberately didn't tell us; just going on as if nothing had happened? What would you do if you infected someone? You're our doctor! _We trusted you!_" he cried.

_Trust is power_, Moriarty had told him._ It's an advantage, and who wouldn't use that for their benefit? I know I would._

They were trusting Moriarty. They weren't trusting John.

And it was all spiralling out of control too quickly for him to set straight.

People were turning away from his side with hurt and betrayal on their faces. And that pain was transforming into anger.

"You'd kill us all!" someone postulated. Another howled, "We thought you a good man, John. How could you?"

"Wait!" he roared. Sherlock stopped him by tugging on his shoulder. "What?" he seethed.

He was watching the way so many eyes were on them both, but his voice too quiet for them to hear. "They're afraid," he said, lowly. "They're afraid, and they're not listening to you. We're becoming the enemy. We need to make them understand."

Like John hadn't already figured that out on his own, thanks.

"Throw them out," Moriarty said, suddenly, looking beseechingly at his converts. "They can't be allowed to stay here. If they stay, they'll ruin everything. Everything that we've worked to keep. We can't let that happen."

John's eyes went wide. God, no. They wouldn't, would they? After all that he'd done?

Some looked uncertain. "But John has helped us so much—"

"Helped you?" Moriarty snorted. "By lying to your face and patching your scrapes? He's not on our side; he's on Sherlock's. Because face it: none of you are worth more to him that Sherlock's word. You put your stock in a man who would let you become a psychopath's lab rat."

John flinched.

"Would you, John?" was the demand. His jaw worked, but no sounds came out. "Do we really mean so little to you?"

"Of course he would," Moriarty sneered. "You already did, didn't you, John? You let Sherlock _experiment_ on a human being, and not just yourself, but one of us." He was talking about Anderson. How had he known about that? "And you would do it again! You cannot stay here—you'll be the death of us all. You're too dangerous together."

There were nods, and John's body went rigid. Sherlock pressed closer to his back. "_John_," he urged. "We need to get out of here."

A man advanced on Sherlock, and John instinctively put his body in between them with a clear 'stay the fuck away' message seeping out of every pore. His hand twitched for the Browning in his trousers.

"Don't make this more difficult than it has to be," said the man reasonably, as if their convoluted logic was perfectly sane. "We have to protect ourselves. I know you understand that."

John gripped Sherlock's hand tightly. Yes, he understood that perfectly well. And they would only have one shot at this. He looked into Sherlock's bright eyes and knew that the detective had met the same conclusion that he had. The detective squeezed his hand back. "I understand. I do," he said, loud and clear. More refugees began to draw closer. Moriarty's mouth turned up with unbidden glee.

They bolted for the door.

* * *

><p>They didn't stop until they were well outside The Compound's walls. The guard didn't even try to stop them; too dumbfounded to react as they went barrelling past. Some people had stupidly attempted to keep after them all the way up until that point. It was dark, and they had no light to see, but they kept running. No one dared to follow them any further into the thick of trees. After what seemed to be hours, they stopped.<p>

Their sharp, ragged pants were too loud in the still quiet, and John's heart felt lodged somewhere in his throat. He looked back into the nothingness they came from, imagining he could see The Compound. Perhaps it was better for him that he couldn't. There would be no point in going back there, anymore. It was just the two of them. Once again. Alone.

He didn't give himself time to dwell on that solitary word.

At least they had each other. They could survive this, as they had all the rest, so long as that fact remained true.

* * *

><p>Being clever did not make one an engineer by application. Wit does not connect severed cables, or rewire currents. And wishful thinking did not help accomplish tasks any faster than a realistic approach, but right about now Mycroft Holmes was hoping for a miracle. He was wishing learning how to configure an old radio had been practical knowledge when he'd had the opportunity to learn it. They had been making decent progress up until a week ago, before the scout that had been doing the repairs did not return from his mission. After the second night fell and he had not returned, the idea that he might had faded. No one who didn't return by the second day ever came back.<p>

Which left Mycroft to continue making the repairs on the radio.

The others here did not know of their attempt to fix the broken machine. They had convinced themselves that they were the only remaining survivors in this area, and even if there were others, they would not be willing to compromise their limited rations. Self-preservation. It was logical, but if things kept the way they were, there would not be enough of them left to consume what little stores they had. He refused to die in such a pitiful way.

The main problem with the device was the damaged and mangled circuitry.

It should not have been such an impasse, but their lack of salvageable wiring in their present location had delayed them significantly. Mycroft took what he could, and what would not be missed, but without the expertise of the other man, it was still rather ambitious.

His fingertips were blackened in spots from burns, and he hissed as another was added to the martyred display. He looked at them distastefully. Not for the first time, he begrudged the fact that he was doing the dirty work he had so abhorred. But it couldn't be helped. He bent back at his task.

_Krrrrrrrzzzzzzt!_

Mycroft was so started by the sudden noise that the wire slipped from his hand, and the radio fell back into its silent death. What had he done? He grappled for the wire again, and slid the frayed end along the exposed circuitry. The radio's face glowed with pale light.

_Krrrrrrrrrsssszzzzzzt!_

He'd done it. Finally! He affixed the wire as best he could and immediately attached the microphone. There was no telling how much time he would have before the battery died or another problem occurred. Or before one of the others heard the noise and came to see what was going on. He needed to get his message out before that happened.

_"Hello, hello. This transmission is being broadcast to any and all able to hear. Please, response by those able to do so is of highest priority. There are survivors here. We are doing everything in our power, at present, to be a safe haven to any that can meet our location. Contact Mycroft Holmes at this frequency at any hour. Broadcasts will continue from here on, for any able to listen."_

Mycroft lowered the receiver. Who was out there left to listen? The government had failed; human kind had failed. What was left of the uninfected had turned on each other. Surviving by sacrificing. There were so very few left. And those who managed to hold on, were they worth saving? The violent and dangerous. The survivors. But he had made it, hadn't he? No, there had to be someone out there worth reaching.

"_We will survive,_" he said to himself, and to the ghost of a survivor he was not sure existed.

Wishful thinking.


	9. One-Shot: Saliva

**Set somewhere at the end of chapter four.**

**This could be read as slash or not, though I personally never intended for Rats in the System to be a romance. I see this more as Sherlock being socially inept and trying to make sure his only friend doesn't think he needs to look elsewhere for company; but if you wish to read it in another light, I can't (nor would wish to) stop you. :D**

**Take some fluff. _TAKE IT._**

* * *

><p>John was trying his best to not seem petulant as Sherlock extracted another vial of his blood. The syringe slipped out of his vein, followed by an escaping drop of red that was quickly swiped away by a swatch of cloth Sherlock had procured. All things considered, he'd gotten off incredibly lucky. Things could have been so much worse, and yet he still couldn't get rid of the feeling that he'd been cheated. It made him bitter despite his fortune, which just made him feel guilty about being ungrateful, which ultimately left him frustrated.<p>

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. "I don't want to hear your complaints about the blood draws. We both know it is necessary, so winging about it will not—"

"Not what I was on about at all, Sherlock," John huffed, tugging his shirt sleeve down his arm and stalking back over to his bed, where he sat with a thump. "Good to know you're not actually a mind-reader, though."

Sherlock sniffed and removed his (John-enforced) gloves. "What is it, then?" he asked, though not seeming particularly interested in the answer. He went about fiddling with his papers and beakers, arranging them in a fashion that seemed no less chaotic and disordered than it had originally.

"It's just..." John said into his hand. Sherlock stopped adjusting his research and finally gave John his attention. That focus just made him feel awkward, however. He really was making too much of an issue out of this, wasn't he? "Well," John continued, "if I'm infected, even immune, I can still infect someone else who comes into contact with me."

"With your bodily fluids, yes." Sherlock flashed the gloves he had worn in John's face. "The reasoning for these, as you so adamantly impose."

"Yes, but it's not just my blood, now is it? It's my saliva, too." How to explain this to a man who had the social capabilities of a child?

Sherlock continued on. "We've already taken measures to make sure that you do not contaminate anyone. As you refuse to leave the ward, all you can do is adhere to the parameters we have set. Should you do so, there should be no reason to worry about accidental transference."

John sighed as Sherlock completely missed his point. "No, I _know_ what I have to do, Sherlock. It's not that. It's just that I may not _want_ to always keep away from people, but now I don't have a choice in the matter."

Sherlock gave him a sidelong look. "You wish to infect someone, then?"

"What, no. No, that's exactly what I don't want to do. Which is what is so bloody awful about it all."

"So you don't want to infect someone, and yet you're upset about the means to prevent you doing so." Exasperated, John felt ready to just let the subject drop, but he then noticed the severe lines around Sherlock's mouth that appeared whenever the detective was mocking John's human sentimentality. He knew damn well what John was trying to say.

"You're being deliberately obtuse, aren't you?" John frowned.

Sherlock grunted and sat down at the desk. "I don't see why it should matter to you so much. It is probably more sanitary, in any case, too keep your saliva to yourself, whether it be infected or not."

"It's not about sharing saliva, Sherlock, it's about sharing intimacy. Just...with everything the way it is now, to lose the ability to connect to someone in that way makes everything a bit more...lonely." As the words left his mouth, he immediately hated how desperate it made him sound.

Sherlock gazed at him critically. "You're not alone, John. You have everyone in The Compound to support you. And you have me."

"It's not the same. I mean, not that I would be more connected to anyone else than you, even if I did kiss them, "John rectified, seeing Sherlock's face go vacant. He was feeling increasingly guilty about this line of conversation as it continued. Why was he complaining about being alone? He at least held a greater sense of community than Sherlock had. John was really Sherlock's everything. And to take that away...

John fought off the fresh sense of panic he had felt when he was certain that Sherlock was going to kill himself.

"Why would a kiss make you feel any more connected to someone?" asked Sherlock, quietly. He had turned away from John to flick on the radio, but he kept the volume low. John swallowed past the tension in his throat.

"It's just significance we've given it as a people, I suppose," John tried. "Forget I said anything, it's not that important." He lay back upon his bed, eyes trained on the periodic table above it, though not truly seeing.

"Do you feel disconnected from people whom you have not kissed?" Sherlock queried._ Do you feel disconnected from me?_ he was really seeking an answer to.

"Of course not," John reassured as best he could. In truth, there were just certain ways of being with someone that could only be displayed in certain ways. But he couldn't have Sherlock thinking he meant any less to John just because he didn't think of him in that way. Physical intimacy didn't factor into their relationship because it wasn't needed. Their connection transcended that. But explaining that was simply beyond his capabilities. "I was just being silly," he said, as an alternative. "I don't suppose I'll miss it quite so much."

He lie in silence, hoping that what he'd said at put the detective's mind more at ease. He had not intended on making such a debacle of the whole thing. And now his own insecurities had fuelled Sherlock's, and it made a heavy stone weigh down John's stomach.

Sherlock rose silently from his seat with a stoic expression etched into his features. He stood over John, who looked back with tangible worry.

"What is it?" John asked. But Sherlock did not attempt to answer. He continued to stare at John as if deciphering a puzzle, and it made John's skin crawl from the intensity. "Look, what I said really wasn't that important. A kiss is just—"

Sherlock completely ignored his blathering and swooped low. For a second, John thought he was going to stop and just stare, ignoring John's personal space as he had done countless other times when he felt it necessary. But he didn't stop, and the sudden pressure of dry, chaste lips against his own paralyzed him as if he'd been struck. Sherlock's neck was craned at an awkward angle in position to his head, and John innately thought of how uncomfortable that must be before the detective moved away and the realization of what had just occurred dawned on him.

Sherlock had kissed him.

A vivid flush seared through his skin.

Sherlock took several steps back, gaze pinning John still. "Do you feel any different? Any more..." He made a vague gesture between himself and John and the invisible link between them.

"I—" John started, face aflame. "I suppose?"

Sherlock nodded decidedly and sat back at his desk. "Good," he said. "Now that that's out of the way, we do not have to repeat it. If you're connected to me, you do not need to be connected to anyone else. And it did not require the transfer of saliva to do so."

He seemed very proud of his conclusion, and John didn't have the heart to try to reprimand his logic.

Forcing down the embarrassment he felt, John tried to relax back upon the bed. The radio flitted through the space between them. After a while of this, the stillness eased away John's stress, and he chuckled softly to himself. He probably couldn't feel any closer to Sherlock if he'd been sewn to the man. Why focus on such trivial things? While he may miss that intimacy that he shared with others, he didn't need it like he needed Sherlock. It wasn't necessary to his survival. Now if only he could somehow beat the notion into the madman's head that his own safety meant as much to John as John's did to Sherlock. He needed to take greater care to keep safe and _not infected_.

He thought for a moment.

"Your cure," he began, breaking the silence, and with it, the remaining dregs of unease. "Can it reverse the virus in a living being?"

And thus the brief episode came to an end, and John filed it away with the moniker of 'Sherlock's Psychotic Break.' Whenever mentioned, he would refuse to speak of it. As Sherlock himself had said, it had happened once; there was no reason to repeat it.

Though he did think back on it, on nights when the sense of loneliness would seep in through the cracks, and the memory would make him smile.


	10. One-Shot: Harriet

"**Harriet" as requested by** **Icy Sapphire15.**

**Aaaaand back to angst.**

**I wish I could do happy things, but it's these ones I have the most fun with. *sigh* Oh well.**

* * *

><p><em>"You've reached John Watson's mobile. Not here right now, but I'll get back to you, so leave a message. Thanks."<em>

"John? Hey, it's me, Harry. I don't know if you've been watching the things they're saying on the telly, but things are looking pretty fucked up out there. Just, uh, phone me, yeah? We haven't talked in a while."

Harriet ended the call with her mouth drawn into a firm line. It had been a little more than two weeks since things had gotten rough. The news and websites were all saying some pretty horrible (and if she admitted it to herself, terrifying) things, but then the (bullshit, placating) government officials all said that everything was fine. Just a media sensation. Nothing to get overly worried about. So long as you exercised proper cautions, you would be fine.

But if that were true, then why were so many people so scared?

People were sick. It all happened so quickly that no one had time to react. Two weeks ago, she'd been down at the pub, having a pint with nothing but her own burdens to account for.

Today, she had gone down to the same place. The door was boarded up, but the windows had been smashed in. When she'd looked in, bottles gleamed in a broken cacophony on the floor. The fumes from so many spilled drinks made her head swim. It had been raided.

Who in their right mind would do something like break into a pub? Weren't there enough problems, as it was? Reports of burglaries and trespassing had been erupting all over London. And the police hadn't been doing a damn thing. But everyone was going 'round the bend. No one was going to fuss over a break-in when their families were sick. No one was going to stop petty theft when there were people dying on the streets.

The beginnings of anarchy.

She did not feel completely amoral as she took a half-full bottle of whiskey from behind the counter.

By the third week, the government stopped saying they had everything under control. They told people, instead, to stay inside and to wear masks; to not go near anyone they thought might have the disease.

Harriet poured a generous amount of amber liquid into a glass and punched in the numbers on her mobile.

_"You've reached John Watson's mobile. Not here right now, but I'll get back to you, so leave a message. Thanks."_

"John, look, it's Harry again. I don't know what the bleeding hell you did to your mobile, but you had better fucking get it sorted and _call me_. The telly's not saying much of anything, anymore, and if things had gotten any better, they would say, wouldn't they?" She didn't even bother to hide the tremor in her voice, or to disguise the clinking of ice in her glass as she tipped it back, even though she knew John would recognize the sound and berate her. Hell, at this point, she'd take it. "Just stop being a prick and ring me."

Ending the call, she promptly began dialling again. This time to Clara.

"Hello?" said _her_ voice. No, she wasn't that desperate.

She hung up with an angry jab, and tossed the device at the table, where it clacked satisfyingly.

For a while, Harry stared at her phone. Then she came to a decision.

"Fuck this."

She grabbed the mobile and her flat keys, then fled down the flights of stairs to the street. If he wasn't going to call her, then she was going to bloody well find him.

In the taxi, she tried three more times. On the third "_You've reached John Watson's mobile—_" she stopped trying. The cabbie (face covered with a white mask, which was against some sort of code, wasn't it?) kept giving her nervous looks in the mirror.

"Can I help you with something, mister?" she snapped.

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "A bit anxious, eh?" he replied.

Harry curled her lip. "Watch the road and mind your own damn business."

"Sorry ma'am. Just, you know, with so many people losing it, you've got to be watching everyone."

"You're driving a cab. Can't exactly be picky, can you?"

"I've got a job to do, but my safety comes first. Got a family to get back to tonight."

Harry looked out the window to the stream of cars. So many of them on the streets, trying to get somewhere, to someone. "Yeah, well, that's what I'm trying to do now, so just get there."

He gave her another quick once-over before nodding and keeping his silence. Harry sat back and stared at her phone, praying for it to sound. Outside, more and more people had taken to abandoning their cars and walking. At this rate, all of traffic would become immobile, and that was if it hadn't already. She glanced at the clock on her phone; ten minutes since they had moved. Looks like she would be hoofing it, too. She threw a handful of bills at the driver. They were possibly enough to cover her fare, but possibly less. She was out of the cab before he could say anything to stop her.

People were moving and shoving past each other in a madness-induced urgency. The noise was nearly as suffocating as the plethora of bodies swarming by one another.

A child was screaming. The moving bodies were too densely packed for Harry to see, but the little girl sounded no more than a few feet ahead. She wanted to shout back, to get the parents to shut her _up_, because wasn't there enough chaos without the screeching? But then there were more yells and hysteria, and the child was right in front of her, as well as the parent.

The infected parent.

She'd never seen someone with the virus so close up before. The woman's skin was flushed and damp and her eyes had a hollow, glazed look about them. Her body was feinting side to side, knocking into the bodies, including Harry and her daughter. The people around them were backing away in recognition of her condition. Tripping and clawing their way away, with outraged cries of panic and fear.

The woman was still holding onto her daughter.

Before it happened, Harry didn't know what to expect, but she knew immediately that the girl was in danger. Still, her body would not respond to this knowledge. Bravery was usurped by the overwhelming desire to save herself. Even when the girl's dark eyes (like Johnny's but wet with tears) met hers in a plea for help could she will her body to act.

Why was the child looking to her? Why couldn't someone else save her?

Why couldn't Harry?

The mother of the girl made a choking groan and stilled; her grip was a vice on the screaming minor, making her skin white with pressure. Then she reared back, whipping her brown locks and dragging her daughter with her, and then fell forward. The high-pitched wail pierced Harry's ears before the image could even register.

The mother's teeth sank into her daughter's upper arm.

Red blood swelled around her teeth and across her face, and the daughter just screamed and screamed and screamed.

And Harry did not move. She watched.

Should couldn't even feel nauseous past the numbness that encompassed her. Around her, some of the others had fled while some, like her, remained frozen. A man was pushing through with a drawn expression on his face. He was holding a gun.

It was only when he rose it to fire was Harry able to stumble back.

The gun cracked and a rain of blood splashed onto the pavement. People cried out. The daughter, though not shot, fell to the ground beside the woman.

"Mummy?" she rasped. She tried to move her bleeding arm, but she either had lost the mobility or was in too much shock to do so. She heaved pitifully. "Mummy? Mummy, _please_. I'm sorry. I won't cry anymore. I didn't mean to make you mad. Get up. _Get up_."

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god—

Everyone was staring at the man, who had raised his gun again.

The girl did not look at him, but at Harry. (God, no, don't look at her)

"Help me," she begged.

The man fired.

This time, people ran away. The man didn't even look repentant as he tucked his firearm back into his trousers and strode off, leaving the two slumped victims staining the street red. The little girl was still looking to Harry with her soft blue eyes, like glass (like Johnny).

Harry staggered off towards anywhere. Her mouth tasted like the sick that refused to surface. She didn't know where she was going; she just needed to _go_. If she didn't keep moving or didn't keep not thinking then something cold and desperate was going to shatter inside her. It was going to break her. She walked until her feet ached, and then she ran.

She ran to the collapsed front door of 221B.

There was blood all across the threshold and front walkway when she first stepped inside. The room was swimming, and the something inside her came a little closer to breaking.

"John?" she cried out. "_Johnny!_"

No answer.

God, why was all this happening? It couldn't be real; it just couldn't. She braced her hand against the jamb and tried to remember how to breathe.

Someone was shaking her shoulder. "Miss? Hey, look, are you okay?" He had a tired but steady voice, though it sounded miles away. "I'm with the police—jesus, what happened in here?" He was looking at the blood leading up the steps. (Was it John's?)

The something inside her fractured and split, and she was sick all over the worn wood floor.

The man behind her stepped back with a disgusted grunt. She didn't care. "John," she moaned. Her shaky fingers grasped at the strands of hair sticking to her face.

"John! Sherlock!" he shouted from the door. His voice sounded so much louder than her own, but if anyone was there to hear, they didn't respond. (There was no one there) Harry heaved. "I...I don't think they're here. They must have moved on," he said.

Yes. Moved on. He meant they fled, and she wanted to believe that, she really did. But there was blood covering the floor of their flat. She looked to the man; he looked so old: streaks of grey in his hair and deep grooves in his face.

"Why are you here?" she demanded.

He flipped open his pocketbook to show her his badge and card. "DI Lestrade. I worked with the people that lived here. Thought that if anyone would know what was going on—" His mouth snapped shut.

"And now they're not here," Harry quipped. Laughter and bile sought to bubble up her throat. She swallowed back both. "Guess this is how he felt when I was never there for him."

Lestrade's face scrunched in confusion. "Look, maybe you had best go home. It's not safe out right now. Why don't you go wait it out somewhere a little less open, hm?"

"Oh fuck you," Harry bit. "Like boxing myself in would make anything better." The little girl with soft blue eyes (like John) now cold like glass. She would still be dead tomorrow. The world will be just as fucked in the morning as it was tonight.

But she brushed past him, nonetheless, and headed home. The streets were no less swarmed with bodies, but she didn't notice them. It was like everything had glazed over, and nothing seemed real. She walked right past her landlady who was yelling at her for something and trudged up to her own flat. The door closed behind her and she slumped down on it.

For a long while, Harry sobbed into her arms like she couldn't remember doing since she was a child. When she was completely drained of both tears and emotion, she wandered into the kitchen. She forwent the glass and grabbed the bottle of whiskey she had lifted earlier, and then she drank until all the horrible things were swimming rather than clawing. But not enough to make them disappear.

There would never be enough for that.

She fished in her pocket and produced her mobile. Someone was screaming at her through the door, but it was so much easier to ignore them when she couldn't even see straight. She dialled John's number. It didn't even ring, but when directly to voicemail.

_"You've reached John Watson's mobile. Not here right now, but I'll get back to you, so leave a message. Thanks."_

"I think you're dead," she stated. "And I sort've hate you fer it, but not really because I want—wouldn't want you here, anyways. Fuck, I thought you'd be there, Johnny. But I shoulda known because I think I saw a sign, but you're the solider and I thought maybe..."

The person on the other side of the door was slamming into it. Too loud to ignore.

"Bugger _off_," she hollered. The noise didn't stop. "Christ, I don't want to be alone now. I can't handle this shit. There's nothing right anymore."

More shrieks and pounding. Whatever was on the other side didn't even sound human. It probably wasn't.

"I'mma join you, Johnny. I don't want to end up like one've them. I'd rather die." She swallowed and stood. "Jus' wish the last time we'd talked hadn't been the last time."

Harry's hand was deceptively steady as she hung up and set the phone down, as was it when she tied a length of cable she'd been using for her telly into a knot (taught to her by Johnny when he was a scout and why did she still remember it?). Her hand only shook slightly when she locked the bathroom door and stood on the edge of the tub (unsteady balance almost making her slip) in order to fasten the cable tight around the shower rod and her neck. She breathed and fell.

The rod bore the weight. Her toes scratched at the bottom of the tub. The pulsing in her ears could have been her heart or at the door.

The alcohol was sweet enough to make it feel like falling asleep.


	11. One-Shot: Mrs Hudson

"Sherlock, have you seen my phone?" John asked from the floor, from where he had been looking under the sofa.

The detective, eerily illuminated in the cool morning light, did not move from his perch by the window. "No," he deadpanned, never once looking away from the street.

John clenched his fist.

"Are you _sure?_ It was on the coffee table not two days ago. I haven't picked it up since, but now it's gone."

Sherlock raised his voice. "I said I didn't know where it is; were you not listening?"

"Yes, but just because you don't know where it is doesn't mean you didn't move it," John retorted, bitterly.

"I did not move your mobile, John."

"Then _where_ has it gone?"

Sherlock gave him a short, withered glance. It made John want to punch him the face.

"Really John, we're in the middle of an epidemic and your focus is on your mobile?"

John got up off the floor with a huff. "Yes, actually. You see, because we're in the middle of an epidemic, it would be nice to have, you know, in case someone were to phone it."

"You're worried about your sister."

John gave him a loud, mocking clap. "Brilliant deduction, that. Do tell, what gave me away?"

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"Yes, I know. Just—" He groaned. "I need my mobile."

"You can use mine. It's on the mantel next to the bat." He made a vague gesture with his shoulder toward the display.

John looked away, bashful, and muttered something.

Now it was Sherlock's time to be exasperated. "Now what is it?"

"I don't know her number."

"Harry's?"

"Yes. It was in my contacts. I just never got around to memorizing it." John ran a hand over his face. "Any chance Mycroft could get it if I asked? If he's not too busy trying to prevent the collapse of government or sipping tea."

Sherlock turned away from him to look back out the window.

"Mycroft has not responded to anything I've sent him. He has ignored my calls. I have not heard from him in over two weeks."

"Well, I assume he's running himself ragged. He's probably just too busy." Still, it was strange. Mycroft didn't usually ignore Sherlock's calls; just the other way around.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said, quiet. "Mycroft, the mother hen he is, would never ignore my calls when it comes to something serious. And _this_," he motioned with a tilt of his head to the world beyond the window, "is very worrying."

John joined him by the glass. There were lines of people on the street waiting to hail a cab or rolling their luggage and their families behind them.

"Have you thought about it? That we might need to leave 221B for a bit. Somewhere a bit calmer."

"Things are no more calm elsewhere in the city," said Sherlock.

"Yes... I'd considered that."

Bright eyes flicked to take him in. His voice was reverent when he answered, "We will wait, but I have not dismissed the notion."

So it was not out of the question.

"Good to know."

A soft knock at the door drew their attention.

"Yoo-hoo," Mrs. Hudson softly called. "You boys doing all right in here?"

John smiled and waved her in. "Doing fine, Mrs. Hudson. Yourself?"

She gave him a sad, maternal smile and patted his arm. "I'm doing fine, dear. I was just in to see Mrs. Turner. The poor thing isn't doing so well. Trying to get a hold of her family is making her distraught. Says she's going to go get a cab to them, the love. I told her I didn't think that for the best with all those scared people out there. She's not as young as she used to be." She gave John a tight smile, touching her side. "_I'm _not as young as I used to be."

John cocked his head in sympathy. "Your hip acting up again?"

"Just a little, dearie. Nothing to worry about."

John nodded, then looked to Sherlock's turned form. He deliberated a moment before asking, "Mrs. Hudson, do you have any plans? Maybe it would be best, if things get too bad, that you went to visit family. Get away from Baker Street for a while."

She fidgeted with the gold chain around her neck. "I've thought about it, but it's not so horrible out there. Just like the bird flu, I'm sure that it will sort itself out soon enough."

This was nothing like the bird flu. It was something much, much more serious, but there was no use in worrying her overly so.

"Right. Just keep it in mind, won't you?"

"Alright, though I'm sure there's no need for it," Mrs. Hudson tittered. "You're looking a bit peaky, John. I'll make you a cuppa. Will you be having any, Sherlock?"

"Hm? No, I'm afraid I've been rather put off my tea, thank you." He angled his body so that he could look to her. "Do take John's proposition into account, Mrs. Hudson. We won't leave baker Street without you."

The elderly woman made a soft _tsk_ noise in the back of her throat, but gave him a little smile as she left to put on the kettle. Knowing her, she would probably bring up a tray of sandwiches and biscuits, as well, that John would gladly accept and Sherlock wouldn't touch.

Shouts and car horns could be heard from the street below.

"This is madness. Like something off the telly," John said, rubbing his face. Sherlock finally moved to sit across from him in his customary position. "I think it's worse because we just don't know what it is. They never did give it a name."

"Would a name make it any less threatening?" Sherlock scoffed. "Even if you could call it something, it doesn't mean you could combat it."

"Yes, but it would be nice to put a name to the virus, nonetheless. Makes it seem a little less intangible. Unstoppable."

"Then make a name for it, if it makes you feel better. It won't change anything unless you find a way to beat it." He titled his head back against his chair and muttered at the ceiling, "Useless."

John felt his collar grow warm, but forced his emotions down. He could really use that tea right about now.

"What about you, then? Have you made any progress on figuring out how to stop it?"

Sherlock head snapped up and he scowled. "No," he snarled. "I am a chemist, not a pathologist. Still, I might have done _some _good if I'd had a sample of the virus and the use of a lab. As it is, I cannot get anywhere close to Bart's. And Molly isn't picking up."

It was understandable that she may be a bit busy.

"What about Lestrade? What is the Yard doing through all this?"

He shrugged, and his head fell back again. "It is a panic. They're playing mediator between parliament and people and minimizing as many casualties as they can during this exodus. I am of no help to him, as he is no help to me."

"Just as well, I don't suppose you'll die of boredom in the throes of anarchy."

Sherlock's lips quipped. "It loses a bit of the finesse of premeditated murder, but it will have to do."

John chuckled softly, to which Sherlock graced a small smile. A comfortable silence filled the space between. It was strange; like having their own little pocket of sanity amidst the pandemonium.

Shrill noise was wafting up from outside.

_WHUMP!_

"Christ! What the hell—" John vaulted from his seat and rushed to the window. He couldn't see exactly what was making the noise from his current angle, so he hoisted the glass and thrust his head out. The cacophony of traffic and people all rioted around him, including the outcries of those attempting to get away from the man who was currently slamming himself into the door of 221B. Again. And again. And again.

"Oi, stop it!" No response. No recognition that he'd even heard. "What the bleeding fuck do you think you're doing?"

From over John's shoulder, Sherlock mused, "No acknowledgment of the pain. The mania has completely taken him over."

"Is that man infected?" John asked. He's never actually seen one of them. Is this what it did to them? Christ, what _was_ he doing? The man's face had gone bloody from the repeated abuse, and yet he did not stop; his hands savagely clawed at the wood.

Faintly, John heard Mrs. Hudson shouting in retaliation to the man banging on her door below. He saw Sherlock's eyes flash bright a second before the man was running.

"Mrs. Hudson! Don't open that door!" John yelled, already bounding down the stairs after Sherlock.

He heard the creak of the hinge and the surprised scream before he saw the scene take place.

The man was upon her.

No. God, no.

Broken sounds gurgled from the infected man's bloody mouth, and he swiped at her hair and face. She hit him with her fists, but just as the door hadn't, he was not deterred. He gnashed his teeth and bent low against the woman's neck. She wailed tortuously, and John could see the red blood begin to flow across the floral pattern of her dress.

"Let go, you brute!" Mrs. Hudson cried. He made to move, but Sherlock was faster.

John didn't think he'd ever seen Sherlock completely barrel into someone like that. Not with that look of absolute rage.

Mrs. Hudson curled her body up against the wall, cradling her shoulder in a protective way. Tears were dipping down her cheeks from large glassy eyes and she was gasping to catch her breath.

"Mrs. Hudson? Martha? I need you to talk to me." John tried to get her to focus on him and not outside, where Sherlock was still fighting with the infected man. God, he couldn't think about that right now. "Come on, we need to move. Can you stand?"

She leaned heavily against him, but her knocking knees could not support her weight. "I—I can't. My shoulder—Sherlock—"

"Don't worry about him right now. We need to get you out of here." He tucked his arm behind her back and under her knees. Mrs. Hudson gave a surprised squawk as John lifted her into the air.

His shoulder was not going to like him for this.

They absconded up the steps despite John's protesting wound. She seemed much smaller in his arms now, cradling her shoulder and trying not to sob. It made his heart ache.

When they made it inside, John closed the door with his heel and placed her as gently as he could into his chair. "I am going to need to take a look at your shoulder."

The outside door slammed shut, but the screams filtering in through the windows grew louder. John did his best to ignore them, but they were obviously disturbing Mrs. Hudson whose hands jittered in her anxiousness. Someone was coming up the steps, and John could hear the way he was favouring one of his legs by putting more weight on the other. It was Sherlock; who else would secure the door?

The woman looked from John to the door with wary eyes. "Who is that? I can't take—"

"It's Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson. I need you to calm down so I can get a better look at this, okay?" She was bleeding so much. As quickly as he could, he fetched a flannel and pressed it into the juncture of her neck. She flinched at the feeling of rough fabric against exposed skin and sinew, to which John winced sympathetically. She patted his hand gently, as if he were the one that needed consoling.

"I feel a bit faint. Is it awful? I think the nerves are masking most of the pain, if I'm perfectly honest. Not really feeling much."

"Your pulse is pretty elevated. I really need you to breathe. There's no reason to worry. It's over now. Sherlock's taken care of him. I've got you." The pulse was a bit worrying, though. She didn't seem to be settling in the least, and he wasn't sure just how much her heart could take.

"Have you any heart conditions?"

"No, just my hip. Brittle bones but a strong heart. Have to have, living with Sherlock," she attempted at humour. "Too many surprise explosions and what have you."

He smiled at her. "That's fortunate." And while that news was good, and though she may not be feeling it, the wound was serious. The man had ripped open her shoulder; bitten a strip of flesh out. She needed more help than he could give her here.

Sherlock came in through the closed door.

"I hope whatever you did to yourself doesn't need to be looked at right now, because you'll have to take care of it yourself."

"It is of no concern, at the moment," Sherlock said gruffly. He moved closer, and John had only a moment before Mrs. Hudson withdrew a sharp intake of air and she slumped forward. "Jesus! Martha! Can you hear me?" The old woman was still in his arms. He checked her pulse: still elevated, but thankfully there. She must have just passed out.

"We need to get her to a hospital, Sherlock. If that man was infected, the bite could have—what the bloody fuck did you do to yourself?"

The entire left half of Sherlock face was spattered with blood, and a gash at his temple seemed to be the main source. Before John's panic could set in, he said, "Don't worry, it's nothing. He was more tenacious than I expected. No matter how many times I injured him, he just kept coming back. Eventually I just had to loose him into the street and seal the door." He rubbed his reddened knuckles. "But no bites and the blood is my own."

Why was that supposed to be reassuring?

"Right, well, we'll just have to tend to that later. We need to gather some supplies. She needs a hospital and we may not be coming back. Get everything we may need into backpacks for us to carry: food, water, money, passports—just everything you think we should take if we have to leave right away.

John looked at the woman in his arms. While Sherlock took care of that, he needed to make sure that Mrs. Hudson would be fit enough to travel. Stable, in the least. He set her against the chair and peel the torn fabric of her dress sleeve back. The blood flowed freely from the wound. With his free hand he pushed against the carotid artery at the juncture of her neck. Her drumming pulse was easily noticed beneath his fingertips. She was out cold, so why was her pulse still so high? Was it the virus?

"Sherlock, hurry. I don't know how long it's going to take us to get there with people the way they are out there." He paused. "And we may have to take into account that she may be infected. And there's no cure."

"Shut up, John. Where do you keep your passport papers?"

"Closet. Do you know where Mrs. Hudson holds hers?"

"Breadbox. We'll grab it as we leave. Computer?"

"Necessities, Sherlock. Your mobile is enough. Mine too, I you find it."

Sherlock muttered what John assumed was a reply and continued packing. Each minute dragged by into painful eternity until finally Sherlock came back into the sitting room, bags in hand and his coat wrapped around him.

He stared at John's fingers at her neck.

"How is she?"

"We need to leave. Her heart rate is far too high for someone unconscious; it must be the virus. I don't know how to combat this."

"Do you need me to carry her or can your shoulder make it?"

"I think—"

The flesh under his fingers lay unmoving. Her heart had stopped.

"John? What is it?"

"Her pulse is gone. I need you to help me get her horizontal, now!"

Sherlock immediately abandoned the bags and was at his side. When they had her flat, John began CPR while Sherlock moved to give him space, though still near enough for John to see his hands flutter fretfully.

Breathe.

Chest compressions. Two. Three.

Nothing.

Again.

Two. Three.

The weight of Sherlock's eyes was nerve-wracking. He pushed it aside, but it was impossible to disregard. All the more so as he pulled away from Mrs. Hudson's lifeless form.

Sherlock's mouth was agape. "What are you doing? Why have you stopped?"

John turned away. "Sherlock…"

Furiously, he wrenched John's shoulders to face him. "Stop it, John! You're a doctor—_save her!_"

John's heart was in his throat. What could possibly be said at a moment like this? The dawning horror in Sherlock's eyes was like watching glass crack and shatter. He looked broken.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock ducked his head. "How did it happen so quickly? She was offering us tea not an hour ago."

Sometimes John forgot, what with Sherlock's preoccupation with death, just how unaccustomed he was to witnessing someone die. Not that the war could be a good thing, but John was thankful for it now. So that he wasn't breaking to bits at the sight of this woman he'd grown so fond of.

The woman neither had expected to suddenly move.

Her hand shot out to latch on to Sherlock's pant leg before the detective could get clear of her. The noises that were coming from her throat sounded wet and rough, and when Sherlock jerked his leg in order to get free she did not release him—even when the wound on her shoulder oozed blood from the damaged muscles. No hesitation caused by pain.

She'd been lost to the virus.

He drew his Browning out of his trousers and aimed at where her tiny hand was digging into the fabric.

"I'm so sorry," he told her, then fired.

The momentary impact was enough for Sherlock to scramble away to a safer distance, but she was getting up. Her hand was seeping blood onto the lino and her dress stained with red-painted roses.

Sherlock wouldn't move. His eyes kept staring to where John had shot, and where her fingers were now warped and mangled, if even there. John grabbed at his sleeve to try to spur him to action. Just a reaction. He couldn't be in shock, not when John needed him to move.

If there was ever a time John wished for Sherlock's self-diagnosed sociopathic nature to be true, it was now.

Even if just to spare him.

"Leave her! She's lost. _Leave her!"_

Nothing.

John cursed and forcibly shoved him through the doorway and down the stairs, but making sure to hoist the packs onto his back. He was not going to lose Sherlock, too. It wasn't until they reached the pavement outside that Sherlock retained enough of his faculties to move without John's abuse.

He roughly pushed himself away and into the flock of people. John followed closely behind, but as he surveyed their surroundings he saw the bloodshed marring the pavement. So much of it. When Sherlock said he'd turned the man into the street, he'd meant he'd let the man attack those people as distraction.

Who had that man killed

Who else had he infected?

And who of those infected would move on to infect the others?

He grappled with the bags over his shoulder as he was manhandled in the crowd. Sherlock was in ahead of him but keeping close enough so that they were not out of sight. They just had to keep moving. Out of the city. They just had to get out of the city.

They passed countless screams and pleas for help, to which John had to drive himself to ignore. Sherlock took them through alleys to beat the crowd, but it provided little aid. Eventually, they were forced into the sewers, where there was still a surprising amount of refugees. But it did help.

Finally, when John felt his blood boiling and his heartbeat in the arches of his feet, they made it. Far enough that they could surface. And then they continued walking.

Sherlock had come back to himself to an extent during their travel. He had eased some of the burden off John by taking up one of the packs, and his eyes were luminous and direct as they passed by others on their path. Cataloguing and deducing. It was a welcome relief but not a certainty.

"We should probably talk about this," John said, a bit uneasily.

"Yes. It's astounding, the rate in which this virus is spreading. I need more data on it, as soon as possible. I wouldn't need a hospital, though their labs would be optimal—still, too much of a risk right now while we're alone. Just the right equipment, for the time being. And a specimen—"

Panic struck John as a thought occurred to him during Sherlock's rant.

"I gave her CPR. How did I not contract the virus from her?" John wondered aloud. "It took her so fast; I would have noticed something by now if I were, right?"

"You were lucky," Sherlock agreed, though John could see he wasn't really paying him much attention. Too lost in his own thoughts.

"Right. Damn lucky, that." He shook his head. That was entirely too reckless of him. "And you were fortunate, yourself, not be bitten when you attacked him in the doorway."

"_It_, John, not _he_. What's left of those people could hardly constitute as human."

"Is it even living?" He felt the ghost of Mrs. Hudson's racing heart beneath his fingers. And how it just stopped. He rubbed at his temple as if to dislodge the memory. "God, she didn't have a pulse, but she just reanimated—"

The detective's face turned cold, and he looked away from him and to the gravel path. "Mrs. Hudson died, John. She did not come back."

"What? She came back, Sherlock! You saw it yourself."

"I did not. She's dead. We're not discussing this further." John held his tongue from refuting him. It didn't matter, anyhow.

Sherlock was certain that Mrs. Hudson had died, and John could tell that something in Sherlock had as well.


	12. II: The First Days (As the World Dies)

Mycroft was trying very hard not to lose his temper at the sheer stupidity of the people he subsisted with in this prison.

Orrin pawed at the map pinned to the work table. "Leaving would mean suicide. We're safe _here_. I am not risking everyone's lives on a false hope."

"No one said you had to, we're merely suggesting it," Thomas rebuked. "We only have so long that we can stay here—"

"We can stay here as long as we need to! There is no pressing reason to abandon what we've worked for!"

"There is a very good reason!" Mycroft cut in. "We only have a limited amount of supplies here. We cannot continue to rely on the scraps we scrape together forever. We need a more permanent—a _safer_—place of residence, instead of hiding like rats in the sewers—" Orrin threw his arms out as if to strike him.

"It keeps us alive, you worthless oaf!" Orrin raged. "Your plan would kill us all."

He didn't give a damn about the group as a whole. There were only three people he wanted to protect, and his own skin was high on the list.

Mycroft rose from his seat and drew himself to his full height. "At least if we leave there is a chance. Staying _here_ is a death sentence. We will starve before—"

"Don't start that again. Your case is poor and your logic is faulty."

The collar of his shirt grew uncomfortably warm, but Mycroft ignored it. His composure had already suffered far too much in the hours of their many disputes. It was not his own logic that was flawed; he assuredly knew that much. Orrin's fear of the unknown and sentimentality towards his family kept him from seeing reason. At this rate, they were all doomed—his family included.

But getting him to understand as much would appear to be far beyond his capabilities.

"Da, enough. I don't want to hear anymore fighting," Maria, his thirteen year-old daughter intervened. She walked between the two fuming men with tired patience and Mycroft debated telling her to step aside, but Orrin visibly deflated. She took his hand and he sighed tiredly.

"It's nothing to worry about, dear. Did we wake you?"

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted. "Come read to me? I'm sure mum would like it."

The man nodded, turning to follow her out of the alcove where they had gathered.

"We're not finished discussing this," Mycroft told him.

"Enough, Mycroft," Orrin snapped. "You and your bloody conspiracies will drive everyone here mad with paranoia. I don't care who you were back before all this; you're no one now." Maria pulled at his hand and this time he followed her away.

Mycroft bowed his head and rubbed at his temples.

"He's not going to listen to what you have to say. I don't know why you bother with him. Why don't you just go on your own?" Thomas asked him.

Mycroft looked him in the eye. "Do you side with him, then? Do you think that we would be better off here?"

"I…I don't know," he lamented. "I don't think there's any clear choice here. Damned if we do, damned if we don't, as it were."

"At least we would have an opportunity at survival out there. How many times now has Henry gone and come back to us? We could make it, but our chances are better if we remain together."

"Yeah, but Henry's young and quick. Think about the others we've sent out there and _haven't_ come back. I'm just not sure that we can't make here work."

Thomas shook his head and wrung his shaking, aging hands. Arthritis that had been subdued by medications causing him slighting amounts of discomfort now, Mycroft noted. Possibly withdrawal from less justifiable narcotics, as well. The tremors had been growing more and more noticeable with each passing day.

"I am positive that staying here will be the end of us," Mycroft contended. "And I intend for you all to stop deluding yourselves and see it as such."

With nothing further to add, he left to immerse himself in the isolation of his quarters. Another strategy was obviously in order.

* * *

><p>The Compound was surrounded by many buildings and homes, as the university had been the epicentre of a small town. Following the several months in which the virus spread and The Compound was taken over, most, if not all, of these homes had been pillaged. Food, as well as material needs like blankets and most cutlery, had been taken, leaving what remained as a desolate ghost town. Still, from what little remained, there was enough to create shoddy provisions. But anything was better than nothing. Sherlock and John took what they could, as quickly as they could, and left while the moon hung high above them.<p>

No point in lingering.

With no general idea as to where to go now that they were moving, they followed the river. They remained to the wooded area as a ways away from the banks with clear, open space, so as to provide a (limited) cover. Moving around at night was dangerous. Hopefully, if they covered enough ground, they would not have to do this for the duration of the future. While it made it easier to see, it also made it easier for them to _be_ seen. Sticking to the trees was safer.

John's anger was palpable, though he remained silent while they trekked. Sherlock worked on disentangling a rope they had pilfered to occupy himself, all the while keeping a close eye on his companion. He didn't know whether his temper would fade or flare if he were to try to converse with him on the matter, but he assumed the latter, so wisely held his tongue. But he could only stand the silence for so long.

"What—"

"How _could_ they?" snarled John. Sherlock blinked. He had been intending on asking about the sleeping arrangements, but if John wished to talk, then they would discuss what had happened.

"They were scared," Sherlock reasoned.

John turned round on him. "And we bloody weren't?" Sherlock felt tempted to say that, indeed, he had not been afraid. At least, not for himself. But John was still ranting. "We had the cure! And they just threw it away at Moriarty's word. How could he even do that? Manipulate so many people so quickly?"

"Fear makes people even more imbecilic than their usual norm. And all the best lies have a kernel of truth they seed from."

"But _why?_ What gain could he possibly have to do this? He's a victim in this just as much as the rest of us. Wouldn't having the cure be in his favour?"

Well, he did still have Anderson, but... Sherlock theorized that the man would not be used to help recreate the cure. If anything, it would condemn him. Sherlock's cure was poison.

"Moriarty—he burns everything. Anything. He plays the game and then destroys the board when he thinks it's finished."

John stopped short.

"Serves them right," he bit, cruelly.

John didn't mean that; of course he didn't. He would never bid ill will towards so many people he had cared for and about. He felt betrayed, and rightfully so. When he calmed down, he would take those words back. It was understandable, of course, but his anger was making him reckless. Dried twigs scorched by the sun snapped noisily under his tread. They were drawing too much attention.

"It would be best to seek refuge for the night and take inventory of our possessions. We can cover more ground in the morning light rather than tripping over ourselves in the dark."

John sighed hard, but his heavy footfalls ceased. "Yes, alright. But where? If we follow the river, we'll have it as a resource, but we'll also be easier to spot. We're completely vulnerable out here; our only weapon being my Browning." He lifted the weapon from his belt. "We need to figure out what the hell we're going to do to survive this."

Sherlock bowed his head. John was just repeating the obvious, but it would not be best to agitate him further when his emotional state was in upset. The compound may not have been perfect or even remotely akin, but it had been safe and stable. They had shelter and provisions. Normalcy. Perhaps before, routine would have been tedious (and to Sherlock, it remained so afterwards), but the routine comforted John. He'd become complacent when the war had not ended.

But Sherlock was not worried. He had no doubt that the excitement of danger would bring his friend out of his tumult. He did wonder, however, how long it would take John to work through his anger.

Tedious.

They camped a safe ways from the river with no light save the quarter moon. Sherlock splayed the contents of their scavenging between them. It was hardly much. All the edible food had been taken in by The Compound, thus meaning they had no rations. They had a single blanket, four bottles (filled with tepid water from the river), a third of a matchbook, scissors, a thin length of rope, and a torch. Sherlock momentarily flicked it on to produce a strong beam of light, then flicked it off. Good. They would preserve the batteries. It would surely come in handy.

"The first order of business would be to gather food." Sherlock looked to the rope. "Can you do something with that?"

John fumbled for the rope to gauge its strength. "Maybe, but even so, it's going to take some time to catch anything. And we can't afford to stay put for too long. We'll have to get by on whatever we can gather until we catch something else. We're lucky I had my gun fully loaded before we left," he said.

Sherlock did not like the way the word 'lucky' was twisted in his mouth.

"We will have to find some other sort of weapon so as to ration the bullets. The Compound was more secluded, but if we keep following this river, we will have to run into another residential area. Perhaps there will be more to scavenge there by means of food and weaponry."

"Right. We have a plan, then. For tonight we'll camp here. It can't be more than a few hours until dawn. We'll move out then."

Sherlock nodded his agreement and replaced the items in the backpack, careful to lay the blanket first so as to cover a hole in the right corner. "I'll take first watch," he volunteered. Sleep would help John's temperament, and his own adrenaline was still running high despite having slowed their pace. He would be far too awake to do any sleeping in the few hours they had left before sunrise. He wanted John back to normal by then.

"I think I should take it," John insisted, jaw set. He needed to just _stop_ being so stubborn. He could see Sherlock about to protest, so he continued, "I wasn't the one that just got bit by his friend and then had to shoot and bury him all in one night. We've done a lot of running tonight, and your body needs the rest more than mine. I'm not debating it, Sherlock. We'll discuss how we break up watches later on." He took his Browning from his belt once more, perched on a large stone, and faced into the darkness.

Sherlock did not argue, but neither did he sleep. He gave John the space of silence he so desperately sought, just watching him scowl at his own thoughts. The anger was not receding; if anything, it was growing, and it gave the detective pause.

John may not be back to normal in the morning, he concluded.


	13. II: Pariah

To an extent, Sherlock almost lauded the single-minded determination in which John invoked in order to avoid any further confrontation with Sherlock. Even when Sherlock was more than willing to admit that he was directly causing the tension, despite the fact that he wasn't entirely certain as to how. He must have done _something_ in order for John to pull away from him. Especially considering there was from no one else he could choose to interact with, and yet still remained obstinately silent.

The sticky warmth made his clothes cling to his body uncomfortably, as well as his hair flop into his eyes. The riotous curls seemed to get worse the longer it got, and though he attempted to keep them back with water, the heat would ensure they were back in his line of sight in a moment's notice. It was beyond irritating, and so he tried to focus on what was around to appease his hyperactive mind. There wasn't much. Trees and water and dirt and John.

John who couldn't be bothered to converse with him due to his selfish tantrum.

"Are you quite through being angry with me?" Sherlock complained, following John's footsteps though the riverside bramble. Mud and twigs stuck to the soles of his shoes, making him feel off balance. John didn't turn to look back at him.

"I'm not angry with you," John said, curtly.

Sherlock readjusted the strap on his shoulder where it had begun to wear his coat thin. "You are. If you weren't, you wouldn't be avoiding the subject. Or myself."

"I'm not avoiding you, and I'm not angry," John rectified, though his point would be much better proven if he would even bother to look at Sherlock. "I will be if you keep asking me."

Rubbish. If Sherlock didn't keep pestering him, he would never say anything. He tried again.

"This trek would be far less tiresome if you would just be out with it."

John cracked a thick twig with the pressure of his heel.

"Do you want me to punch you?"

Sherlock fingered the underside of his eye, still tender from where he'd been struck before.

"Not particularly."

"Then stop provoking me."

Another snapped twig.

"But I would rather you just get it out rather than ignoring me. I am _bored_," Sherlock qualified, "and being cross and walking in silence will drive me mad."

"Then find something else to entertain you, Sherlock! One of us is trying to keep alert."

A lie. His anger was distracting him more than anything else. His attention was focused inwards, towards whatever was igniting his rage. But at least it was something to _focus on_. Sherlock's mind felt like insects were secreting in his ears and drilling through his skull. At least when he'd been working on the cure he'd had something to do. Something to preoccupy himself with. But here there were no formulas to configure; no mixtures to study. Not even people to deduce about their inane daily activities. To think now he _missed it._ The most interesting creature he'd seen in these days of travel have been fowl and something that may have been a type of cat—

He stopped.

"The kitten."

"What?"

Sherlock quickened his step to reach John's side. "Conan. He wasn't in our room when we left."

"No, he wasn't," John said, still refusing to look in his direction. In profile, Sherlock could see the severe lines around his scowl and on his brow deepen. Maybe this was a factor in his sudden animosity?

"Why not?"

"He died."

"What? How? He'd been perfectly healthy the last I'd seen him."

"That was two days before he'd even died," John pointed out waspishly. "You were too busy. You should take better care of your pets."

That was unfair.

"I was on the cusp of a cure, John," he justified. His work took precedence over all other matters in his mind; he should know this. He had accepted it before, so why should he expect any different?

John shot him a glare over his shoulder. "And that excuses your lapse in responsibilities, does it? I can't always be there to clean up your mistakes."

"Is that why you're angry?"

"No."

"But you _are_ angry," he clarified.

"I am _now_."

"If you would just—"

"Enough, Sherlock! Enough talking. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of—" He stopped, bowed his head and took a breath. His hands shook where they were clenched at his sides, Sherlock observed. He was trying very hard to hold back his fury. John removed the Browning from his trousers and rounded back on Sherlock, brandishing the (safety checked) weapon in his face.

"I have thirteen rounds, Sherlock. Thirteen. Then we're defenceless. We have no food. We have very little supplies. We don't even know where the _fuck_ we're going aside from _somewhere else_, so unless you have something useful to contribute, I don't want to bloody hear it."

Frustration was beginning to rise up hot in Sherlock by this point. John was being completely unreasonable. It wasn't as if being upset would help them either, so why was he taking it out on him? Sherlock felt very inclined at that moment to tell him exactly who was currently putting them at more risk but bit his ire back. That wasn't going to help. John needed to get over what was currently irritating him, not be set off by something unrelated. It solved nothing.

Maybe if he appeased John's sense of authority he would recover faster, even if Sherlock thought none of the things he told him. Worth trying.

"I am open to suggestions. Anything," Sherlock said, careful to keep his tone on the believable side of pleading. John stopped and Sherlock plaintively added, "I am at a loss."

The silence was tense until the time that John shook his head and sighed. Exasperation. Perhaps resignation.

"We don't have much to work with," he said, then expounded, "We've been walking for almost three days—you'd think we'd run into something by now. A bridge or a road or something manmade. But there's been nothing. We couldn't have gone that far away from any sort of civilization. There should be a sign as to something around here that could help us." John ruffled his hair as he thought. "Maybe it's time we abandon the river. If we head to high ground, we could scope out where to go next. Double back if need be."

"Alright," Sherlock agreed. "After you."

* * *

><p>It was hours to dusk and by now most had turned in for their nightly routines. Mycroft took the responsibility for that night of watching their gate, though his reasoning was far from altruistic. Their scavenger was loading his belt with handheld weapons as he prepared to head out.<p>

"Henry? Could you spare a moment?" Mycroft asked.

Henry gave him a wry look over his shoulder. "Knew you'd be asking me for something sooner or later. You hate watching the gate, so I had to wonder." He fastened up his coat sleeves. "What do you want?"

Mycroft eyed him. "You know better than any of us what lies out there now. Tell me, if we were to try to move from here, what would be our chances?"

Henry paused. "Well…that depends on how many. All of you?" He levelled his stare. "Or just you?"

Mycroft prevaricated, "The exact number is undetermined. Your answer?"

Henry turned away from his to continue gathering his pack. The light was growing dimmer, making their recess harder to navigate. The lights were all kept inside to keep at bay any unwanted attention. This boy had been the one to inform them that those infected were attracted to the light, along with countless other advice that may well have saved them. To think this rogue is the one that kept them alive now. Without his work, they would have starved long ago or been infected scavenging. And the few that had tried were now gone. They were solely dependent on an unpredictable teenager. It made Mycroft's toes curl at the sheer vulnerability of their situation.

"I really don't know what to tell you. It's not good out there, and the people in here aren't exactly all that able. I mean, the kids might be alright, but you guys are all older and slower. Not to, er, insinuate nothin'. When Al was still around we were fine, but even he got caught out there." He shrugged into the strap of his bag and turned to Mycroft's steely eyes.

Allan had been one of the youngest of their group before Henry. The fastest and the bravest. It was that bravery that made him ask Henry to bring him along in the search for supplies. A search that Mycroft had told him to think better of, but was ultimately cast aside. Allan did not return. Henry did.

Henry told them Allan had been trapped and that he had no other option. He left Allan for dead.

Mycroft held no false beliefs that the same would not happen to them should Henry feel it necessary.

Their lives were entrusted to a deserter.

Henry continued to chatter on, failing to recognise the shift in Mycroft's temperament. "I'm good, but I can't take care of you all out there. You don't know how to defend yourselves, and even if you did that doesn't guarantee anything. They're fast, if they're fresh, and it's easy to get caught if you're in big groups."

"We need to get to that place you talked about. The haven."

"The Compound? Mate, that's pretty far from here." He rocked his weight on the balls of his feet. "With all of you, there's no way we would make it."

The elder man frowned. He had hoped there would be a better way, but it would seem there was not.

"Then if it were just I alone?"

Henry frowned and shook his head. "I don't know. It's still not a good idea. You're not very fast or a strong fighter—sorry, but you're not—and it's a journey from here. I could probably map it out for you, but I'm not going to leave the city again. 'Sides, these guys need me, and that's several days of traveling, there."

Mycroft folded his arms thoughtfully. The notion of abandoning the others was not ideal. It would be more dangerous, but it was in the best interest of them all if they could leave at once. Conceivably, if they could travel in smaller groups they would be more inclined to try. Reduce the hazard as much as possible. But Henry was right; they couldn't defend themselves out there. That would need to be fixed.

And if they refused to save themselves, he would have no other choice than to move on.

"If the time comes, could you get one out of the city?"

"I could try, but I make no promises. If we go out there, I'm not going to protect you. You can either keep up or get lost. It's the way it's got to be."

"Fine. If it comes to that, then so be it."

"Just so we're clear," Henry added, then cleared his throat. "I'll be off. See you at daybreak."

Mycroft nodded and allowed him through the swinging chain link before latching it behind him. If this was to be the case, then he would have to prepare himself. The time of being idle had passed; it was now the call to action. He watched as Henry disappeared with the last vestiges of light.

Training would start tomorrow.

* * *

><p>"That storm is heading right for us," Sherlock said, peering at the black-grey clouds precariously sitting atop the mountain ridge.<p>

"I hadn't gathered," John droned irritatingly. Sherlock frowned at the back of his head since he'd gone back to not looking at him. "But you see those buildings out there? We might make it before the storm hits, if we're lucky. It's a good thing we didn't keep following the river or else we would be stuck in those hills for ages."

"Yes. Shall we leave, then?"

John mumbled his assent and headed on. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from exacerbating John's mood with the cutting remark searing the inside of his mouth and trailed behind. More than anything he wanted John to have it out with him or to just swallow his anger. This antipathy towards him was intolerable. Sherlock was moderately sure if he didn't obtain some sort of mental stimulation in conversation or observation then he'd have to find some other way to deviate himself.

Though John typically did not approve of causing himself undo amounts of pain, and now did not seem the best time to test his limits.

Sherlock's long fingers toyed with the dial of the silver pocket watch in his fist but kept his eyes on the back of John's head as they walked. Too much nervous energy was making him jittery, and no outlet for it left him feeling anxious and, if he admitted it to himself, slightly ill. John was supposed to be the stable one of the two of them. Up until this point he'd proved as such, but now it would seem that he too was being strongly affected. He could tell an emotional pitfall had been breached but not how to mend it. That was John's area.

Except John was now the one needing to be fixed and Sherlock had no idea as to go about being consoling.

The following few hours of travel prolonged with resolute silence despite the few attempts on Sherlock's part to break it. The more persistent he attempted to be regarding John's state, the worse it became, and so he let the matter drop. Nearing the limits of the settlement, however, lead to that silence becoming a necessity.

They crouched low to hide as one of _them_sauntered loudly out of the bracket, crushing dried twigs and kicking stones with heavy feet. It wouldn't take long for it to sniff the two of them out, as experience would indicate, but for now it seemed preoccupied rooting around a tree with low-hanging branches.

"Has it found a rabbit or something?" John whispered. "We might be able to sneak around it."

"It would be better to just kill it now, so it doesn't find us later. One less to worry about."

"Thirteen shots, Sherlock."

Sherlock worried his lip and looked about them. There weren't really any sizable rocks to use as a bludgeoning tool, nor particularly sturdy branches. As John had mentioned before, their lack of weapons was disconcerting.

The turned woman fell to her knees in the dirt, reaching out with bony fingers and bloodied nails towards something just beyond her reach. Getting away now while it was engrossed might indeed be their best option.

Both slowly began to inch away from the scene, careful of drawing attention with their movement. Then the woman suddenly snarled and pitched forwards, tearing her face and hands in the bramble that held her at bay. They stilled and listened to her frenetic thrashing but she remained oblivious to their presence. That was fortunate.

The ferocity in which she pursued her prey was interesting. As was the state of her infected body; black-red feet bloodied from walking and being dragged, hollowed eyes from lack of rest, emaciated from the rate of which her body consumed energy. She was absolutely fascinating. What Sherlock would give to be able to understand how she managed to keep upright, let alone the ability to attack.

He could tell countless other things about her: who she was before based of the brand of her clothes and the way she had kept her hair; the jewellery around her neck and wrists, now corroded and stained. But none of it was nearly as remarkable as the person herself. How he longed to be able to flay her open back at his labs. A fresh specimen would have been perfect.

He was so caught up in his observations that he almost didn't register the quiet whine and wail that followed the woman's clawing.

And the crack of the Browning was completely unexpected. The woman's skull exploded, painting the green grotesquely red. The cry of the prey, still in hiding, was far more audible without her.

"What was that about thirteen shots?"

John faced him with a scowl. "Timing," he hissed. "That's not an animal."

They approached the site of the attack, wary of the corpse at their feet, and waited. The crying tapered off into stifled sniffs, barely hidden. No, this was very much not an animal.

"John—"

"I know." He crouched low to peer into brush, and spoke softly to the creature waiting within. "Hello. We're not going to hurt you. Will you come out?"

Silence. Then, quietly, the voice of a child spoke out. "Are you going to eat me?"


	14. II: The Forest of Hands and Teeth

"Are you going to eat me?"

It was a legitimate question, though the ones that would do such a thing would be beyond reply. John smiled tiredly, in a way that his eyes creased in the corners and made his whole face seem gentler and less severe.

A smile. That was good. He couldn't even recall the last he'd seen John smile.

"No. We won't hurt you. We can help." He crouched lower. "My name is John. Can you tell me yours?"

Wary, but slowly growing more trusting of John's presence, the child stepped forward. Her tawny-coloured hair was a knotted mess that was tugged and strained by the thorny branches, and her clothes were torn and caked with mud (splash pattern would indicate she fell into a puddle, not the river, and that she'd made and attempt to clean away some of the muck but was largely unsuccessful). Likewise her shoes were scuffed and discoloured, but her hands were astoundingly clean. Not even dirt under the nails, which were cut (no, bitten) short.

A compulsive tendency about the cleanliness of her hands, but nothing else. Interesting.

"Annette. My name's Annette, though Da calls me Skip." She looked at John, to whom she returned a small smile, but did not take his outstretched hand. She kept her fists close to her chest.

"Well, that's a lovely name, Annette. What are you doing out here yourself?"

"Where is your dog?" Sherlock interjected. The parents were probably dead or turned by this point. Not hardly as interesting as what happened to the dog. Or the older sibling.

Annette started. "H-how do you know about Ghost?"

It was hardly a difficult inference, but it felt good to be able to draw it, nevertheless. "The brush in your back pocket, white fur, not hair, too coarse, as well as the rope burns around your right wrist where you held the leash—poor judgement, that, seeing as it is a larger dog and thus likely to break your wrist with a harsh enough tug. You don't have the leash now, which suggests that either the dog tugged free or you tied it up somewhere. If it had pulled free then it would make sense that you were looking for it; however, I don't believe that is the case. So you tied it up. And then you were cornered here."

The child's mouth was agape with awe, but then twisted in indignation. A familiar reaction.

"It wasn't dumb! My sis was supposed to be right back, but she didn't. So that means I am on my own with Ghost. But Ghost is too loud too big to bring with me everywhere so I told him to stay. I just got surprised."

"So your sister was doing what, exactly? Gathering supplies? But someplace that she didn't feel comfortable to bring you into, which suggests a precarious environment. Infested with those that have turned, I presume. Perhaps that town we were headed towards before stumbling into you." He looked into her soft, watery eyes. "She's probably not coming back."

"_Sherlock!" _John chastised. "Enough. There's no need to be cruel."

Sherlock frowned at him. "I am not saying anything aside from the obvious. She said as much herself. I am hardly being malicious."

The doctor muttered something about empathy that Sherlock pretended not to hear.

Annette looked between the two of them with the stubborn set of her jaw, still fuming over Sherlock's appraisal. "I don't need your help. You're rude and talk too much. You'll only bring them closer. They always go after the loud ones."

John's lips turned up slyly while Sherlock frowned.

"Because you were faring so well before we came along," he snipped. Annoying child. But credit must be given to the enjoyment John had taken in finding her. It was doing him good to interact with someone else, as incompetent as they may be.

"He does talk a bit much, doesn't he?"

Annette nodded. "Is he sick in the head? There was a girl in my class like that. Couldn't keep anything inside her mouth."

"No, nothing like that. He just likes to hear his own voice." John shot him a challenging look when he opened his mouth. He promptly snapped it shut again. "Annette, do you think you could help us? We've been without food for a few days now, and we're lost. Do you think you could help us get to the town we saw on the way here? We could really use it."

'It's not safe to go back there. Those things took everyone who went back there. That's where Sammy went."

John frowned, but they hardly had a choice. But any knowledge that girl held of the area might increase their chances of getting out alive. And they had the added benefit of not being able to be contaminated themselves, though the girl did not share in that luxury.

"It might be a bit tricky, but it would still be better option than braving the elements out here." He looked to the looming thunderclouds overhead. "It will start raining within the hour. We should get moving. And don't worry, we're not helpless. We can take care of ourselves—and you." He smiled again. "We wouldn't want you to be stranded out here on your own.

She looked uncertain. "I—I suppose."

"It's your decision. We won't make you."

"Ghost has to come with us, though. I won't leave him behind."

"Of course. Do you remember where you left him?" She nodded. "Then let's go find him, shall we?"

* * *

><p>"The dog has been bit."<p>

Annette ran the red hand brush through the animal's white fur, tugging against matted strands.

"I know. But I wrapped it best I could. He's been doing fine since then. Though it's been hard to get him to eat."

Sherlock rocked on his heels as he peered at the bandage that John was unwrapping. The wound was very slowly healing, considering it wasn't fresh. But even as it had happened just a few hours prior, there should have been more clotting than this. And the skin surrounding the wound was a purple-red color. Infection. Was the animal infected with the virus? If so, how was it not dead? Not turned? Can animals even become turned?

"How long ago was it bit?"

"_He_ was bit yesterday before my sister left. I didn't want him to ruin his leg, so that's why I left him earlier."

"Yesterday?" John's own face twisted as he regarded the bite; the lack of clotting, but he didn't interrupt Sherlock's query. "Fascinating. But besides the loss of appetite, there has been no noticeable effect? Disorientation? Increased temperature? What about aggressiveness?"

"Ghost is never mean. Not to me, anyways. But he's a good protector. I don't think the turned ones like going after animals as much, anyways."

"But they obviously still do, or else it would not have been bitten."

"I guess," Annette murmured.

"Wonderful. Something to look into."

John sent him a sidelong glance. "What are you thinking about?"

"I didn't have much time at The Compound to study the specifics of the virus in other forms. I wasn't even aware that animals could be sensed by the turned, let alone attacked. And now this—the dog has been brought into contact with it. Do they have a natural immunity to the virus? Or is it still infected?"

Annette looked stricken. "Is Ghost okay? He can't turn like them, right?"

"That's what we're going to find out, though the lack of response thus far would suggest not."

"I'm not sure I trust you," Annette said, hugging Ghost to her tightly. "How do I know you're a good person? There are worse people than the turned ones. I know that."

Sherlock's lips thinned but he gave no reply. The doctor glanced over his shoulder from where he was still checking the dog's wrappings.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why should I? While I am hardly the worst sort to be around, it is not wrong of her to be suspicious." He sniffed. "My fault in her is for not accusing you, as well."

"We're not dangerous!" he admonished. To Annette, "We're not."

"We are," Sherlock corrected.

"You're just being contradictory."

Fed up, Sherlock whirled around to face Annette directly. The child flinched backwards but held his eyes with her own. "It is best to put one's trust in a truthful man than a dishonest. We are dangerous, and that keeps us safe. But we are not malicious, which is what John means. We are not dangerous to you."

Annette paused to take this in. "I—I understand. And I guess I can believe you," she said to John, and then to Sherlock, "so I guess that means I can trust you too, if he does."

Sherlock ground the heel of his shaking hand into the bridge of his nose. "You have missed the point _entirely_, child. Form your own conclusions!"

John shook his head as he rose from the wounded animal that immediately bounded up to its owner's height and wedged between her and Sherlock.

"I think she has better sense of judgment than you do, to be honest." Annette shyly grinned from behind Ghost's white head. "We don't have much time left before the brunt off this rain is on us. Annette, do you have many of these plasters left? Good. When we get someplace safe, Sherlock, I need to check over _your_ injuries. They weren't meant to be worn for days on end."

The detective raised his right hand to examine the dingy wrapping he adorned to cover his bite. He was tempted to remove the irritation now, but that would just make John cross. He opted to ignore it.

"Fine."

"Fine. Then Annette, please lead the way. We'll be right behind you."

* * *

><p>It took a little over half an hour to reach the town.<p>

Annette tilted her head that rested on her arms. Her small body barely cleared the small wall's height. Ghost sat quietly at her heels with its ears tilted attentively. "Are you sure there's nothing wrong with your head?" she asked Sherlock.

He was standing still in the skip between two small houses; one of which John was searching from the inside. The houses provided limited protection from the bitter rain as well as the turned, though not enough in either case.

His eyes were on the street where _they_ wallowed around, whimpering and growling and dragging their bloody heels through the sludge. One turned its head when another fell, but then ignored it. Two bumped into one another, but no aggressive reaction. They moved on. Interesting. And the rain seemed to be masking his and Annette's scents to a degree and allowing them cover. Small conveniences.

But that did not completely exclude their sense of hearing.

"It would not be wise to raise your voice if not necessary," he whispered. The rain was making his hands quake as it noticeably dropped the temperature. The girl seemed unaffected by the cold despite being soaked through places in her dress.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Observant."

She puffed out her cheeks. "Your hair is too long," she insulted pitifully.

He cast her a withered look over his upturned coat collar. He was sorely missing his scarf. "You have to do better." One of the turned tilted its head in their direction. Sherlock pressed himself tightly against the house's siding, and Annette ducked behind the small wall. With no noise or movements to differentiate between living and inanimate, it lost interest and continued on.

"Are we going to leave soon? It's going to get really dark and I don't want to be out here with them. It's not safe."

"Not much longer now. We'd need to gather as many supplies as possible while we can. There is no guarantee we can stay here." But he was getting anxious, as well. John was taking a while going through the house. The silver pocket watch that Sherlock had lifted ticked in his palm and against his chest. Another minute more and he would go in. It shouldn't be taking this long.

"I just…" Annette muttered. He could barely hear her over the flow of rain. "I just don't want you both to go away like Sammy did. And if you're sick in the head, or—or if you're just sick, then you might leave." She rubbed her face on her arm, still carefully avoiding soiling her hands. "Do you think we might find Sammy?"

Tick. Tick.

"I cannot predict as such without all the facts." He clicked the watch shut and placed it in his pocket. John's time was running short. "We have other things to worry about right now. We can speculate when it's safe."

Slinking against the damp wall, Sherlock made his way over to Annette and Ghost, moving slowly so as not to draw any unwanted attention. One of the turned stumbled through a puddle at the entrance of the alley, and the extra noise caused by the water drew blood-shot eyes in their direction. Enough gathering. They needed shelter.

"I don't like this at all," Annette keened. "Can we please leave? It's wet. And I'm scared."

"Yes, as soon as I get John," Sherlock said. He looked to the alley's mouth where the one had fallen, but it had not fully righted itself. Would it be safe to leave the girl? Or would it be better to take her with him inside? He knew what was out here. He knew not, inside.

"I am going to retrieve John. Would you rather wait here or come with me?"

Annette worried her lip. "Which is safer?"

"I don't know."

"Oh." The dog, sensing her distress, nudged her hip with its head. "Then I guess I'll stay here with Ghost. You will be coming back for me, right?"

Possibly. "Stay low. I'll be quick."

As quietly as he could, he slipped open the chain link gate further down the alley and stepped into the house's yellowing yard. John's steps were clear enough from where the wet grass was pressed flat, but they only ran in the direction of the house. He had not tried to come back, so he must still be inside. Sherlock held his back to the grey siding of the house and crept up to the closed back door. By holding his ear to the slick wood he tried to hear any noise from the other side, but there was nothing. If one of them was inside, they would surely make more noise. John would be silent.

He opened the door.

He was immediately faced with the barrel of a gun. It didn't fire.

"You hesitated," Sherlock noted casually.

John scowled. "Jesus, Sherlock! What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be watching the street."

"Yes, well, the blocked street will only become more perilous if we do not find shelter soon; before it becomes completely dark." John lowered his weapon to take in the dark sky, and Sherlock gave him a disapproving frown. "I should have a bullet in my brain right now. What if I had been one of them? You very well could be dead."

"A 'thanks for not shooting me in the face, John. Really appreciated,' would have sufficed, you know." He shrugged more securely into his backpack strap. Heavy. That was good, at least. He'd managed to find plenty of supplies.

"It would be wrong to encourage behaviour that would get you killed," Sherlock chided.

John huffed in frustration. "Hey, it saved your life, didn't it?"

"That is beside the point."

"I really don't think it is."

"We've had this discussion before, John. You can't die. You hold the cure. Any scientist with a semblance of intelligence can recreate it. So you must stay alive. If that means killing me, I expect you to do it."

"Yes, well, I rather think your brains would serve the world better if they stay in your head, so I'm not going to apologize for not shooting you in the face. Even if I really want to."

"Apologize?"

"Shoot you in the face."

Sherlock wanted to argue his point further, but a violent shiver wracked his body and made his jaw clamp tight.

John huffed in disapproval. "Let's not argue about this now, alright? It's getting dark and you look half dead already. I've been through this house and it seals up tight, so I'll grab Annette and we'll stay here until morning."

"It's safe?"

"More so than out here, at any rate. We'll keep watches like we always do, and then leave as soon as daybreaks."

_And go where?_ Sherlock wanted to counter, but he kept it to himself. His body was aching from the cold, and it was making his mind sluggish. Hatefully so. This argument could wait until they'd settled in. "Fine."

"Good. Here, take this." John slid off the backpack from his shoulder. "I've gotten all we need and a few things I thought we might be able to use. See if there's anything not in here you could otherwise think of."

Sherlock took a brief glance inside. "Did you find any other weapons?"

John sighed and shook his head. "No. No I didn't." He looked at his Browning. "Twelve shots," he said, and then turned to find the girl. Sherlock zipped the bag tightly closed and stalked inside.

* * *

><p>The house locked up well, for the most part, but the biggest worry was the large sliding glass door that lead to the back patio. No curtains or rails to hang blankets. Luckily, the boarded fence was a good six feet high and on level ground which made it difficult to see inside. Still, it was in their best interest not to have any lights that might draw <em>them<em> close.

Annette and Ghost fell nearly instantly asleep in a spare room down the hall. John volunteered to take first watch and insisted Sherlock try to sleep, but the detective ignored him in favour of scouting out the garage. There was a car there with more than half a tank of gas. They could use it to leave this town. If they found more gas, it could take them wherever they needed to go. If they could decide where that was.

Upon leaving the garage he also lifted a tall, worn shovel leaning against an exercise machine. The blade wasn't very sharp, but it might have its use. He held on to it and went to find John.

"You should be sleeping," John chastised when he entered the common area. "Get some rest; you look like death warmed over."

"Boring. And unproductive. I've looked around, and there's a car in the garage. Half a tank and good tires. It might even make us back to London."

John huffed. "London? Why on Earth would we go back there?"

"Labs, John. I need their labs. Not to mention it does well to suppose that there would be people left there; survivors that didn't leave."

"Who in their right minds would stay there? The virus was spreading so quickly when we left. It would have been suicide to stay."

"Perhaps then, but we know nothing of the situation now. It could have wiped everyone out, and people could have come back."

"Or it could still be completely overrun."

"It is a possibility."

"I don't think that's a wise decision, Sherlock. Until we know more, we could be walking right into the epicentre of one of the biggest outbreaks."

"At least it's a _plan_, John. What else do you suppose we do? Just wander about until the last of the human population is wiped out? We need to make this cure as soon as possible, not whenever it doesn't endanger us."

"Without us, there will be no cure, so our safety is actually incredibly important."

"We've been in dangerous positions before. We thrive in them. Why would that change?"

"Maybe I've come to realize our mortality in these past months. And there's Annette. We can't just leave her here."

"We can and we will. She is not our responsibility, nor can she become our liability."

"I will not leave her here to die in the streets. She's a child. I won't abandon her."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in on John's reddening face. "Your bleeding heart will get us killed."

"My bleeding heart is trying to keep us all alive!" he hissed.

"You can't save everyone. Haven't you learned that by now?"

John looked as if he was about to strike him, and Sherlock instinctually flinched back. "I can at least _try_." He looked away, composing himself. Then quietly he asked, "Sherlock, what about when there's no one left to save? What if things get too bad to possibly get any better? I can't just stop trying to make it better. But I can't do it alone."

"That's why we need to get this cure finished as soon as we can. You're not doing anything alone."

John glared. "Are you sure about that? What about if London is still completely overrun? What if we _can't_ make the cure, for whatever reason? What then?" He scowled. "Do you stop trying? Twice now, Sherlock, you've convinced me you were going to kill yourself. When I saw you point that gun to your head, I thought, _why?_ Why now, when we finally have something to live for would you suddenly decide it wasn't worth it?"

"But I'd been bitten! You know as well as I do that it is better to swallow a bullet than become one of them. We can't let that happen."

"I didn't know! You didn't tell me you'd been bit. You just went off by yourself, and what if you hadn't come back? You didn't tell me, and I wouldn't have known. I couldn't even fathom why you would leave me alone like that, by choice."

"I wouldn't, John. You should know me better than that. Suicide is only a last resort if you get bit."

Sherlock knew what was coming next.

"It wasn't the same when I was bit, was it? Depression doesn't work like that. It's not logical." John closed his eyes. "What do you live for, Sherlock? Is it for the puzzle? What about once the cure is complete? Are you going to see through its distribution? The world has been changed. Our old life isn't there waiting for us anymore."

"We can find a different—"

_Criiiiiiiiick._

They both froze still.

"The kitchen?" Sherlock breathed. "The door was locked; I checked."

John lifted his gun. "Maybe it busted out a window?"

"Without us hearing? Do you really think they're that clever?"

"I don't know, but I'm not going to sit here a try to figure it out. Go find Annette and get to the car. We're leaving."

He honestly wanted her in his care? He was more delusional than Sherlock thought.

"And what exactly to you plan to do? Shoot it? That will alert every one of them to us."

"Do you have a better plan?"

"Yes," he assured and hoisted the shovel off the ground. Before John could try to protest any further he strode on towards the dark kitchen. He heard John curse his name and then the doctor's footsteps as he retreated to the spare room.

Sherlock kept his footfalls quiet as he entered into the unlit kitchen. Immediately his gaze fell to the closed door. The room was relatively small, and with no crevices to hide in. But that didn't discount the idea that perhaps the intruder was not one of _them_ to begin with, but a scavenger. One that had learned to pick the lock and snuck inside.

He stepped closer to the door and peered out the small window. All he could see outside was the dark lawn and the fence, but he couldn't see where it wrapped around the house and led to the alley. He looked down. The door was unlocked. Someone human had opened it and then shut it again.

Silently he opened the door and, limited as his sight was, investigated the lock. Or he would have, had there been a lock on the outside of the door to do so.

Urgent footsteps vied down the hall, and Sherlock closed his eyes against the blind panic he knew he would see as soon as John entered the kitchen.

"Annette's not in the room," he said.

"I know."

"What do you bloody mean _you know?_" he urged. He stared openly at Sherlock's face, then knocked past him and out the door. Sherlock grit his teeth and trailed along after.

John frantically cleared the yard, gun held aloft. There were noises coming from the alley. Groans and shuffling. The turned were obviously riled up.

"No. No, no, no…" Sherlock heard John breathe. The soldier rushed the length of fence until it joined the alley.

It didn't take Sherlock more than a second to realize what was going to happen next.

Annette was in the alley; of course she was. And she'd been attacked. Was being attacked. John was going to fire his gun to kill the thing in order to protect the girl that was likely already lost to them. That gun would sound and then _they_ would be there. More than those already stalking the fence line: drawn by the scuffle.

"John, don't—"

"Annette! God, no, don't let her…no." His hands shook, but to Sherlock's surprise he did not fire. Instead he wrestled with the gate latch, disturbing the turned that sat hunched on the ground. Over the girl's still trembling body.

John had already reached the same conclusion he had. The girl was gone.

Without delay, Sherlock scaled the chain link fence and wielded his shovel high. With as much force as he could muster, he drove the blade down sharply into the neck of the standing turned. The flesh squelched nastily and the metal grated against the bone, rough enough to be felt when Sherlock drew the shovel back.

It fell to the ground and did not move. To be sure, Sherlock dropped down into the alley and plunged the shovel back into its skull. Nothing. It was well and truly dead.

In the meantime, John had opened the gate and crouched over the girl that lay sprawled in the rain. The little girl with dirty hands marred with teeth marks and serrated flesh, reaching out towards the turned at Sherlock's feet.

She was still alive, but there would be no saving her now. They both knew as much. And she was suffering. The pain must have been excruciating.

"We can't leave her like this," John whispered, hands fidgeting at his side. They didn't have the medical supplies to try to save her, and even if they did, she'd been bit. If she survived, she would turn. "The gun?" he opted. The kindest option. Quickest. Painless. But wrong.

"No, it's too loud. And we need to conserve the bullets for when we need them, as you've said more than once."

John gnashed his teeth as his own words were thrown back at him. Sherlock hadn't said it to be cruel. He was right: those bullets could mean the difference between their life and death. They couldn't be squandered.

"What then? Smother her?"

Sherlock shook his head and lifted up the shovel. "No. This way would be quickest."

"Sherlock, no—"

"_Fine_, then would you like the honours?" he snapped. Enough time had been wasted debating on this girl's death. "While you decide which way is best to kill her, she is going to bleed out on her own. And by then _they_ will be here and will devour what remains. Is that better? Is that _kinder?_"

"Just…" John hung his head. "Don't let her see it coming. Please."

Sherlock gave him a curt nod John did not see and stepped behind them both. Like for the turned, he positioned the blade at the base of her neck, beneath her long hair. John grasped her bloody hand in comfort, and said softly, just barely over the sound of rain, "Not much longer now," and quieter, "thank you."

A sharp, downward plunge and it was over.

The gore ran in red rivers down the shovel blade and tainted the grey road. John with a mask of stone carefully lifted the girl's corpse out of the muck, but blood still seeped into her little dress and the ends of her hair. Her head lolled to the side, and her wide, scared eyes stared right into Sherlock.

He looked down and away to the corpse before him, staring at him with the same wide eyes, bloodshot, undamaged by the blow that severed the spinal cord at the base of the neck. The family resemblance was uncanny.

This corpse, once the girl's sister, was no doubt the reason Annette had come out here to begin with. Seen from the small window in the room, she'd come to retrieve her. Sentiment. And how clever she had been to sneak away from them while they had been distracted by their argument; too oblivious to try to stop her.

The turned were getting closer. They retreated back indoors and neither said a word.

Perhaps it would be best not to mention this to John.

They still had twelve shots.

* * *

><p>John insisted on a small memorial for her. The least they could do, he said, with the little time they had left. Sherlock did not complain, and helped him prepare a small grave in which they lowered her prone form into the ground. John made a small cross from broken fencing while Sherlock began the task of filling the grave.<p>

"We," John whispered, gaze downcast as Sherlock packed in the last of the dirt over Annette's pale body.

"What?"

John lifted his eyes, dark with grief, resolutely to Sherlock's own. "You had said _we can find a different way_. Do you live for me, then? When I was bit, when we were sure that was the end, you still had the cure to work towards. You still had so much more _work_ to be done, but you told me that you were going to kill yourself. Despite _the work_, you were going to leave." He fisted his hands tightly at his side. "You can't just check out because I'm not there! I'm only human, Sherlock. Mortal like anyone else. And I can't even think about risking our lives if it will ultimately end in getting us both killed. Even if that means only one of us is killed, but the other can't move on."

Sherlock drove the tip of the shovel into the wet ground. "Things are different now, John. I—I apologize for not telling you when I was bit. I had thought it would have been kinder if you'd not have to see. When you were bit, it was like the whole world was suddenly shattering around me. I didn't want you to go through that."

"It would have been so much worse had you done it and I hadn't known. Believe me when I say it would have been exactly the same. You mean just as much to me, Sherlock, as I do to you."

Sherlock bowed his head against the rain, staring at the pallor of his own hand against the dark of his coat. His hand was trembling, and he couldn't deceive himself into believing it was due to the cold. "You're stronger than I am, John."

He shook his head. "I'm really not."

The soldier nodded solemnly at the makeshift grave, then turned and headed back towards the house. They would take the car in the garage and leave the town. No sense in wasting any more time.

Sherlock lifted the shovel out of the loose dirt. As soon as he moved away from the grave, Ghost, slow and lumbering, came and sniffed at the mound. When Sherlock walked away, the dog remained, lying atop the dirt, continuing to protect the deceased child. Would it leave when the hunger became too much? Or would it die here, unable to complete its obligation? A penance?

Sherlock's palm throbbed painfully with his own slow heart and he shadowed John to the garage where the doctor had already loaded the packs and Sherlock tentatively placed the shovel.

In the car, Sherlock slipped low into the cheap leather seat and buried his hands in his pockets to hide their quaking. He discerned how John's hands remained steady, if white-knuckled, against the steering wheel as he turned them away and down the broken gravel road.


	15. II: The Remaining

The storm did not cease for the length of time they spent on the road. The rain pattered against the windows and bled together the grey world outside. Not that there was anything to look at, in any case. Sherlock remained slumped low in his seat, wrapped in both his coat and the silence. The hateful silence that had been suffocating them and yet neither had managed to break. They drove for ages with no sense of direction. A new road appeared, they took it. Leading anywhere. Leading nowhere.

When they stopped, the clock on the dash read 7:46 and John's eyes were closing of their own volition. The car rolled to a stop beside some sort of park and Sherlock stretched out his long limbs from where he'd kept them close to his torso. Despite not having expended much energy through the passing day, his body felt as if he'd taken on an army. His hand was throbbing the worst of all the aches, and the old bandage that they had neglected to change due to the arisen circumstances was chafing and irritating. It should probably be looked at. John would want to do it, but he was going to pass out any moment now. It couldn't be that difficult, so Sherlock decided he'd take care of it on his own when the other fell asleep.

"I don't think I can drive any more today. Can you take over?" John asked, slipping out of the safety belt. His arm sagged heavily against the wheel as he tried to rub away the weariness from his eyes.

"It's not like we are in a rush to get to nowhere," Sherlock said. Quickly he added, "We can stop here for a while. It's safe inside the car, and we haven't seen _them_ for a while now. You rest, and I'll keep watch."

John frowned. "Night's going to be here soon. The car's not exactly the best place to stay."

"It's better than we've had before. The turned couldn't smash these windows with their fists, and even if they did find us, we could easily just drive away. For now, this solution is fine."

John didn't dispute it, for which Sherlock was pleased. He'd had enough wandering in circles.

"Alright, fair enough." He turned the key and cut the engine. "Then I'll close my eyes for now. But just for an hour or so, okay? The last time I saw you sleep was days ago. You need the rest as much if not more than I do." The lines around his mouth and brow deepened. "Are you sure you don't want to sleep first?"

"I'm not the one falling asleep at the wheel."

"No, but—"

"I'm _fine_," Sherlock said in a clipped tone. "An hour or so and then I'll wake you. I'll sleep then."

"If you're sure."

"I am."

John huffed and opened the car door. Sherlock heard him mutter something incomprehensible before the door slammed close and John made his way to the back. When he'd gotten himself settled into the back seat and the movements stopped, he sighed. After several long moments, Sherlock felt secure that he'd at least fallen into a light sleep. He set to removing the annoyance binding his hand.

When the final layer of wrapping was undone, keeping silent any noises caused by doing so, Sherlock stared at the wound with no small amount of horror. While the bite had stopped the worst of its bleeding, it still oozed a black-purple type of rancid pus. He used the corner of the gauze to try to remove some of it, but the rough material felt like a jagged blade against the tormented flesh. This time he was unsuccessful in stifling his pained exhale.

More gently, he prodded the distended purple vein that ran down the centre of the back of his hand. It felt thick beneath his skin. The same way it felt when he'd felt the veins of the dog's bitten leg. Was it the same? If it was, the same questions arose as they did then.

And they didn't have the means to answer any of them.

Not knowing what that could mean in this situation was more than concerning.

John snuffled and shifted behind him, perhaps disturbed by the smell, so Sherlock hastily rewrapped the bandage. Their supplies including the additional medical aid was in the black bags in the boot of the vehicle. He'd thought that perhaps he could retrieve them after John had fallen asleep but it would seem that he was sleeping too lightly to try to risk it. If something was wrong with the wound, John would worry. And worrying wouldn't do them any favours if they had no means to fix it.

Then again, John would most likely be very cross when he did find out about it. Angry at Sherlock for hiding it and then angry at himself for not being able to help. In either case, it was best if John was in a tolerable state until Sherlock found a way to somehow resolve it.

He slumped back in his seat at stared at the playground through the windshield: a swing set, a sandbox, a merry-go-round, climbing bars. The paint had begun to peel and fade, from what he could tell in the dimming light, though the degree of wear would imply that the upkeep of the park had already deteriorated prior to the outbreak. Tiny, muddy footprints lingered as eerie reminders of the time before. Of the children that surely met their premature ends somewhere in the not so long ago past.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to ignore the thudding of his heart and the harshness of silence around him. Anything. If only there were something he could focus on. Noise from somewhere other than rattling around inside of his skull. The endless questions with no aim or resolution. His mind kept working as tirelessly as ever while his body felt as if it was slowly drowning under the weight of it all. He clasped his hands together to still their anxious fiddling then kept that position for a while more. Until when the numbers on the console telling the time had all changed and the darkness had consumed all of the world around them.

John was still asleep. He could bear to sleep a little longer, but it was already longer than Sherlock had said he would wake him for. Best not let him go on for much longer. Sherlock reached across the dash to press at the dials. Maybe there was a CD or something that he could use to fill the silence. Or the radio, though it would only repeat the same message they'd heard a thousand times before. Still, he turned the dial and the station displayed. Soft static. He configured the setting to one of the pre-sets he recalled from The Compound, and the soft but garbled broadcast flitted in through the static.

"…_state of emergency…__**please contact**__…warning all civilians…__**there are others here, we can**__…in the infected areas…__**overrun but possible to**__..."_

Sherlock listened attentively but nothing followed after the first deviations. Whatever had been interfering with the signal had stopped. It wasn't on a loop, then? Was there someone commanding the disturbance?

"That was different," John said with a sleep-heavy voice.

Sherlock peered over his shoulder at him. "Yes."

"Do you think it means anything?"

"I'm not sure yet."

John nodded, then stared intently at the lit up dash. "You let me sleep longer, didn't you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You needed it. And we were safe. There was no reason not to."

John took a curt inhale to show his displeasure. "Right, enough of that. It's not _kinder_ to martyr yourself for me. Wake me up when we agreed on a time. Hold to it. We both need the rest and you trying to slowly kill yourself does _not_ help."

Now was not the time to be raising their voices despite how much Sherlock desperately wanted to. They had been unnoticed up until this point. It would be better to keep it that way.

"Will you ever stop being angry with me?" Sherlock said quietly, staring back toward the windshield. _"__That's_ not helping, either."

The doctor sighed. "I know," he admitted. "But please, knowing you're all right helps more than anything else. And knowing I can trust you to take care of yourself when you need to eases a lot off my mind."

Sherlock shot him a glare. "I survived before you came along, John, as much as you care to forget. I am not completely inept," he sneered.

"Yeah, well, you do well at having me forget that bit. It's nice when you prove me wrong." He tried to smile, but the pinched muscles didn't seem to want to work correctly and it ended up somewhat more like a grimace. It was, in fact. "What is that smell?"

Sherlock's heart pulsed hard. "I think there's some human remains on my shoes from the alley," he lied. "By the time I noticed the smell it was already dark. I didn't want to risk the smell of it outside drawing _them_ to us."

"God that's horrible," John balked. "As soon as we can we need to get that off. Do you think we should move for the night?"

"No. I think we can make it until morning. We seem to have found a decently reclusive area and moving at night has never served well."

"Yeah. Someone or something might see the lights. If that's the case, then now it's time for you to sleep. Three hours, since that's the time you gave me, and I'll wake you. Please, _try_ to sleep."

"If you'll stop complaining, I shall do so," Sherlock acquiesced. He leaned to the side so John could clamour over the median to reach the front seat. When John was quietly sat behind the wheel, Sherlock tilted his seat back and pretended to relax. He'd tell John about the bite soon, he told himself. Perhaps tomorrow.

He slanted open one eye to watch John scrutinizing his Browning; compulsively checking and rechecking the bullets in the clip. Somewhere along the line all of the lights turned black and he fell uneasily into sleep.

* * *

><p>They changed shift twice that night, and in the early morning they left the park to continue down the road they had been following. It was a blessing that they hadn't had any problems in the night. Both of them had been in dire need of some rest, though in the pale morning light John wasn't entirely convinced that Sherlock was faring any better.<p>

"Sherlock, how does the cut on your face feel?"

"Unnoticeable," he murmured, flipping up his collar and adjusting his seat upright.

"Hey, don't do that. I mean it—" He reached across to pull back the upturned collar and expose the purple-green mark. "It doesn't look like it's healing properly. The bruising should have started fading by now."

"Maybe you punched harder than you thought," Sherlock said, shrugging away from John's hand.

John felt a twinge of fear and guilt. "Something might be broken."

Sherlock prodded the purple mark on his cheek. "The pain in negligible. Doubtful that anything is broken. In either case, there is nothing to be done about it at present."

"What about your hand? How is that feeling? I see you've changed the bandage."

"Fine."

"You're sure?"

"I know how to change a bandage, John. In either case, we have other things to worry about."

John sat back in his seat. "Like?"

"The fact that we're quickly going to lose our mode of transportation if we don't have a fuel source," Sherlock said, indicating the gauge on the dash.

John nodded. "I had, in fact, noticed that much."

"Then the question is whether to find fuel or abandon the vehicle."

"It's been a good source of protection, if nothing else. And it makes it easier to carry supplies than on our backs." John worried his lip as he stared out the windshield. The car was also necessary should they decide on somewhere to go. You can only get so far on foot. With their limited rations they wouldn't be able to travel far without collapsing. "We should try to keep it," he decided.

"Then I suppose we know where to go next."

* * *

><p>The petrol station appeared as though it had fallen to disrepair early on by the state of growth on the outer walls. When they pulled to a stop, Sherlock stepped out of the car and opened the back in order to remove the black backpack.<p>

"I'm going to see if there's anything worth taking. Perhaps a petrol can, tubing, or provisions, if they haven't all been taken," he said, already making his way inside.

John turned to survey the parking lot, not entirely vacant. A silver truck was on the far right hand side of the lot; the windows had been busted out and the back right tire slashed open. Another of the tired had been lifted off. Worth checking before they left, but it was most likely already scavenged. Maybe they could prise another tire off, though, for precaution's sake. He'd yet to see if their own vehicle had a spare in the boot. On the other side of the lot was some sort of construction site where the building had once been trying to expand.

John cautiously stepped over the exposed framework to get a better look. Tarps ripped from the wind fluttered like wraiths in a draft. Discarded planks littered the laid cement and about those were various, forgotten working tools.

_BAM!_

As reflex John immediately ducked low and went to draw his Browning that was not there. The metal crate he was hidden behind was only just taller than his crouched body. Whatever had made the noise had quieted but instinct told John it was still lingering. His heart pounded steady in his ears. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, he peered over the crate.

On just the other side was a turned: a girl with hair pulled back but mostly now falling out of the tie. Her glassy green eyes darted back and forth over the place John hid but never landed on him. Why wasn't it attacking him? Surely it saw him, or at the very least smelled him. Yet nothing. It gave no indication of noticing his presence. And, apparently satisfied with its perusal, now turned away from him entirely to head towards the swinging open door. Quickly looking around him, he reached for the first hand tool he could reach: a rusted hammer.

The turned lumbered inside, dragging its heels but not otherwise making much of a sound. On the other hand, he could hear Sherlock on the inside rustling through the shelves for supplies. It wasn't loud, but the turned obviously could hear it and was drawn to it.

The hallway through which it entered was narrow but short. To get the blow to the head he wanted he'd need more space to swing. The turned stood still and for a moment John feared she'd noticed his presence; she sniffed the air and her whole head swung back towards Sherlock, once again baring her back to John completely. Why? There was no reason that it shouldn't have noticed him. John thought that perhaps it was the meat on Sherlock's shoes he'd not had time to remove, but it was always apparent the turned went after anything living as opposed to dead.

She stepped into the open room, head cocked so her chin stuck out at an angle. She looked at all the raided shelving, trying to catch sight of Sherlock amidst the off-white metal and spilled commodities. Nothing caught her eye nor John's.

Then a small sound, a rustle of cloth, whispered towards the back wall along the rows of glass doors. The turned shuffled forwards and John hoisted his weapon. He'd have to make this as smooth as possible. Knocking it back wouldn't stop her, and he couldn't give her the opportunity to get a hold of him, immune or not. They inched closer and John calculated the best angle. Temporal lobe, if he could reach around to it. If he could just get its attention so it'd face him he'd have a clear—albeit risky—shot.

There were no sounds driving her forwards now. Sherlock had gone completely silent. Did he hear them enter? Hopefully he wouldn't call out or make any other noises just yet. Just a few seconds more. Just—

John followed the turned around the corner of a shelf, just enough of a bend that her head swung to the left to keep in her sights where she presumed Sherlock to be. And yes, Sherlock was still there on the floor, backpack slung over his shoulder and legs tensed to run. The Browning in his hand was aimed directly at her forehead and ready to fire.

He saw John with the hammer prepared to strike and he paused. Just long enough.

John swung the hammer with as much precision and force as he could maintain. Contact was swift, and resonating through the wooden handle he could feel the break and give of bone beneath flesh; shattering beyond and imbedding in the viscous matter below that. Blood slicked his hand and hammer and welled in the gash to run down her face. She choked and keened when her legs failed to move her body onwards. Instead she held out her hand and feebly clawed at the air stretching the distance from herself and Sherlock. Even now, she didn't try to lash at John.

The hammer did not come free cleanly. The squelching noise made John's mouth taste of bile. More blood ran down his hand and made his hold on the hammer slick. He clenched it tight so it wouldn't slip and swung again. The harrowing crack stung his ears. Sherlock didn't flinch or waver. This time she fell limp to the ground.

"You hesitated," John parroted, narrowing his eyes at the Browning in Sherlock's hands.

Sherlock frowned and lowered the weapon. "You seemed to have it taken care of."

"Yeah. Lucky thing it didn't see me," John mused. He ran his slick hands across the material of his trousers. The blood was drying in places; it made his hands feel gummy and disgusting and much too warm.

Sherlock added, "Or smell you."

He stared at the red stain he'd created. "Or that," he agreed.

It was suddenly imperative that he find something to clean his hands with. He looked behind himself at the reception counter and the room at the back. Maybe there was something in there. Sherlock had gone thoughtfully silent so John left him to it and went to investigate the room. He clenched his hands repeatedly, feeling the blood in the grooves of his skin. Something. There had to be something around here. Desk, chair, smashed computer monitor, microwave, rubbish bin, coat rack.

There, hanging on the coat rack. He reached out his soiled hand to grasp the fabric but stayed his action as he came nearer. He stared at the length of fabric: a reddish scarf. Worn a bit thin and stretched out, but a perfectly serviceable one. No reason to ruin it when it could be put to better use.

"Hey Sherlock, come in here."

"What is it?"

"I think I found something you might like."

Sherlock peered into the room and John in the corner. With a shrug of his shoulder John indicated to the hanging scarf. Sherlock strode up next to him and took it into his hands.

"I suppose it was time to replace the last one."

"Figured you might want it."

Sherlock nodded and wrapped it around his neck. A different colour, but it was fitting. He looked a bit more complete. "Thank you, John. Hopefully this one has a less gruesome fate."

John resolutely did not think of the one tied around Lestrade's skull to keep the skull fragments and brain matter from spilling out the back. Just as he did not think of the girl lying out front with the side of her face bashed in and blood spilling on the floor.

He rubbed at the blood coating his palms anxiously. He still needed to get it off.

As he turned to step out the door, Sherlock called over his shoulder, "You may wish to keep hold of that hammer. It seems to be useful."

John swallowed, but replied, "Yeah. But don't think I'm letting you keep my gun." Implied: I am not sure I trust you with it.

A pause. "Duly noted."


	16. II: Rot and Ruin

The torch swayed unsteadily back and forth in Henry's hands, bouncing the light off the dark floor but only directly in front of their feet and doing absolutely nothing to help guide them forward. It made Mycroft disoriented. He blinked rapidly to try to adjust his eyes in the darkness and to keep his gaze on the tunnel ahead.

"If you don't hold that thing steady I will take it from you," Mycroft warned.

Henry switched the torch to his other hand, but he didn't raise it much higher. It wasn't because he was tired or anything of the sort. His wrists kept the beam steady and only flicked the light up occasionally to illuminate the tunnel.

"Sorry," he said. "I just don't like it down here. You never know if one of them is hanging around. I don't want them to sneak up on us unawares."

"Being able to see would be helpful."

"They see the light. I know this section of tunnel's blocked off at the other end but I still don't want to draw any of _them_ to us if they wandered down here." Henry stopped. "Look, maybe we shouldn't be doing this. Why don't we just wait and I can take you guys up so you can train on a building or something?"

"The others don't want to train," Mycroft reminded him.

"Then I'll just take you."

Mycroft stopped and took the torch out of the teenager's hand. "There's more of them up there than there are down here. Or at least in this area. This is the best place for it. We've been down here before and made it back fine."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. And up there they'd hear and gather around. I just don't like being cooped up like this. Way too easy to get cornered."

"Then keep a good watch," Mycroft told him and aimed the beam directly down their path. "And don't get caught." He continued walking. Henry hesitated before falling into step with him.

"Does it feel good to order me around like that?" he scoffed. "I know a lot more about this stuff than you do, mate. My precautions have kept me alive this long."

"Yes, you are quite adept at saving your own skin, aren't you?"

Henry rounded in front of him, bristling with all the intimidation of an angry housecat. Mycroft met his green eyes without missing a beat.

"Look, what happened to Al was not my fault. You can't try to save someone when you know it's a lost cause. You can't be responsible for everyone's lives or you'll lose your own. It's different out there. And yet I still bring your group food and blankets and stuff. Don't try to make me out to be the bad guy here for doing what I need to do."

"No. You're a survivor. You made as much clear when you arrived here, those monsters on your heels and blood on your shirt. You do what you have to."

"At least I was out there fighting and not cowering underground, you sod," Henry spat.

"Fighting against what? For every one you bring down there's a hundred more crawling over its corpse." Mycroft sighed. "You're quick enough to get by out there, but you have no reason. You're fighting for nothing other than for fighting's sake."

"That's reason enough," Henry retorted. "At least I won't stop fighting. Not until I'm dead in the ground."

"At this rate that'll be soon enough." Mycroft sniffed and pushed the teen aside so he could continue on. "You'd be of more use figuring out a way to stop people from even becoming one of _them_ than you would trying to kill them all off on your own. Eventually, everyone will be dead, whether they were turned or died trying to wait it out."

Henry still hadn't moved from where he'd stopped so his voice echoed hollowly when he said, "Everyone I'd had's already dead." Mycroft stopped and aimed the torch back at him. "My dad was a dead man when we made it to The Compound. I'd have been, too, waiting around there. At least I'm doing something with my life here. Even if it kills me, I've got to fight in the only way I know how."

"A fool's errand."

Henry held his chin up defiantly. "Yeah, maybe. But it's all I've got to be doing. So I'd best be doing it. Otherwise what's the point of living?"

"There isn't much, is there?" Mycroft told him. The boy had a strong will, if nothing else. "Just the hope that whatever you're doing might make a difference."

Henry nodded and slowly walked back to Mycroft's side. "That's what you're doing, isn't it? Hoping to make things better in the long run? To make things right again?"

"Things could never be like they were."

"No, they couldn't." The teen paused a moment, lost in thought. "Did you have anyone before all this? Family to find?"

The torch wavered slightly as Mycroft drew a deep breath. "A mother and father. A brother."

"Oh. Is that why you're trying to get to The Compound so badly, then? Think maybe they're there?"

"No," Mycroft bit. "I hope for nothing of the sort."

Henry frowned. "I think you're lying," he said.

"Think what you'd like." He turned away from Henry. "I am not going to speculate on their survival or demise." He'd run the probabilities a million times in his head. He didn't have enough facts. And to convince himself that any of them were alive only to be proven wrong was unfathomable. Even if it was more likely that he'd never know either way, it was preferable to think this way. Push it out of his mind.

Henry persisted, "But don't you want to know?"

"I have more important things to be focusing on, at the moment. It can wait."

There was no more talking after he said this, to which Mycroft was grateful. It wasn't until they'd reached their destination deep in the belly of the London Underground, blocked off by a derailed train, did anyone say a word. While Mycroft inspected the edges of the blocked tunnel to ensure that nothing could creep through from the other side, Henry set up the makeshift targets on the tracks.

The surprise crack of a gun made Mycroft's heart leap into his throat.

"And just what are you doing?"

Henry motioned to the carcass by side of the wall. "Jus' a rat. Scared me, is all."

Mycroft shook his head and lifted his own weapon out of his waistband. The sooner they started training the sooner he'd get out of this dungeon and away from this child. Not nearly soon enough.

* * *

><p>The rain thrummed relentlessly for the next day and a half, throughout all of which Sherlock and John wandered aimlessly along deserted back roads. The traffic on those roads was far less dense than in the suburbs during the time of the outbreak, so the blockage of cars didn't often deter their path. They had no cause to stop until the road they'd been following all of the previous morning came to an abrupt, rocky end.<p>

"Looks like the road's been washed out by the rain. This car will never make it over that," John said, squinting over the steering wheel at the mountain that relocated itself directly in their way. "Just great."

Sherlock lifted his head briefly to look at the obstruction. So this route was just as useless as the rest of them. It was of no interest to him. He dropped his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. The slight motion was causing his headache to flare. For the past few hours he'd managed to negate the pain by categorizing his mind palace. Now he'd have to crawl his way back into that headspace all over again.

"I suppose we'll have to try to backtrack. There was a service road a while back we could use. Maybe it'll lead us back to a road that we can use." There was a rough indication of movement before Sherlock felt John nudge his shoulder. "Budge over, I want to look at the map."

"What use is it if you don't care where you're headed?" he muttered, refusing to inch over or even open his eyes. "Perhaps we could try the highway."

"No, I don't think so. It's probably jammed with cars and I want to make sure we're not wandering into some urban trap," he said, shoulder bumping Sherlock's nose as he reached into the glove box. Once he had it in hand he sat back heavily in his seat and unfolded it. As noisily as possible.

Sherlock growled in irritation and squinted open his eyes to glare in John's direction. "What does that matter? At least an urban area will have someplace we could raid supplies from. There's nothing out here on these paths."

"Yes, that's sort of the point," John sighed, focusing on the intricate lines on the paper. "The urban areas are going to be more clustered, and a higher chance of the turned loitering around. I don't want to risk it. We'll find smaller areas as we go. There's less of a chance we'll find _them_ around, or anyone else." His forehead furrowed. "It's safer that way."

"It's less safe if we run out of food or gas before we find anything worthwhile. We need to go where there will actually be something to find."

"There probably won't be. If there were a lot of people around at any point it's likely they cleared out the areas before they left."

"Unless the turned forced them out before they could do so. Or they were all turned themselves. If _they_ are around no one else will be and anything left behind will be ours. It's not an outrageous challenge so long as we're smarter than _they_ are."

"It's not about being more clever, Sherlock. It would only take a second to get separated or overpowered or cornered. _They_ can sense us just as well if not better than we can, especially in the dark. It's not worth it."

Sherlock leaned his head back against the headrest. "That's not entirely true. The one in the petrol station, you said it walked right past you?"

John nodded slowly. "Yeah, it was the strangest thing." Yes, it was strange. Why didn't it notice him?

"But you said that it looked as if it had smelled me?"

John finally looking away from the map for a moment. "Her eyes looked pretty rough, so she probably didn't see you. I'm assuming either she heard you or smelled you."

"Somehow without first finding you. Why didn't she find you immediately if you were so close? That doesn't make any sense."

John shrugged and turned away from him; noisily flipped a leaf in the map, though he didn't appear to actually be reading it. "Maybe those old films were right. She went after who she thought had the biggest brain."

Sherlock stared at him in confusion. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"No, Sherlock, I'm not. Just—I don't care if you think that it's pointless to try the more rural areas." He set the map in Sherlock's lap so that he could reach into the back seat to get a brief look at their packs. "We're not desperate for supplies right now. We don't _have_ to take the chance to get more. It's better to not." Sherlock saw John's body still beside him as he got a better look inside Sherlock's bag. He already knew what was coming next before John sat back and levelled him with an irate glare. "We've actually got more supplies than I thought we would at this point. Care to explain that one to me?"

Yes. He'd been growing increasingly nauseous the past few days and the thought of any food had him forcing back the bile in his stomach. He'd eaten a bit, when John was awake. But after it came back up once he didn't try to ingest any more than strictly necessary to keep himself upright. "I'm not going to eat when I'm not hungry," Sherlock told him.

"Sherlock, there's no way you can do this to yourself. Not now. You need to eat and keep up your strength. This food can't go to waste."

"I don't want it. I'm not hungry."

"You don't need to ration this badly. We have enough that you don't have to starve yourself over it. Eat something." John reached back and plucked a small box of cereal. He then put it in Sherlock's hand. "Go on, then."

"I'm not going to eat this, John. If you're hungry then eat it yourself."

"Stop it, Sherlock." His expression was turning dark. He pointed to the box. "I'm not the one who can hardly hold his head up. You're probably feeling like such shit because you're starving yourself to death, you bloody ponce. You're not doing anyone any favours like this."

"I'm doing us both a favour in not wasting supplies if they're not necessary." Sherlock wished he'd stop pressing. He wasn't ready to deal with the fallout of John becoming privy to his declining state any more than he already was. They didn't need the extra strain to worry about right now.

"I think you just like me mothering you. As if I don't already give you all my attention, let me devote my every thought to your wellbeing, shall I?"

Actually if John would focus on him a bit _less_ that would be ideal.

"You're being ridiculous."

"No, what is ridiculous, Sherlock, is that you can't be bothered to bloody _feed yourself_ and it falls on to me to keep you alive because you can't be _arsed_ to do it for yourself. What else have you got going on in that thick head of yours that you're so involved in that you can't accomplish this simple task, hm? You have no cases to solve, no people to deduce, no cure to create, nothing. There's absolutely noth—"

Sherlock, eyes wide and surprised, reached across the seat median to try to grasp John's arm and calm him down but John knocked his hand away. The wound on his hand smarted, but the flinch was masked by John's anger.

"John, I understand your worry but there no reason—"

"I have every fucking reason, Sherlock! Don't you dare tell me not to be upset by this when it's _your_ fault that we're in this situation to begin with."

Sherlock scowled back at John's thunderous expression. "It is not my fault that we're here. I didn't start this." He gestured outside the window, to all of it.

"No, but you are the reason we're here, out on the road and not in our dorm back at The Compound."

"It was Moriarty that made those stupid people—"

"No, it was _that_ attitude that made them turn against us! Moriarty didn't have to do much at all after all the damage _you'd_ done. They were just looking for a reason to throw you out."

"Then good riddance to them!" Sherlock shouted. "We don't need them and their narrow little minds—"

"I did!" John thundered. "I needed them—someone to talk to and converse with and to make me feel a little more human. Not _this_." He gestured to Sherlock in his entirety. It hurt. Quite a bit more than he expected it to.

Sherlock didn't immediately reply as John was already turning away from him. John reached for the door latch and Sherlock tried again to grab his sleeve, only to be shoved off. John savagely kicked open his door and stomped out in the rain; his shoulders hunched and his hands fisted in his pockets. Sherlock scowled at his antics and opened his own door to thrust his head outside.

"And where do you plan to go?" Sherlock yelled over the rain. "You can't just leave."

John whipped around to bare his teeth at the detective. He screamed, "I _know!_ I'm trapped here with you. Whether I like it or not, you've _all I have left_." Sherlock recoiled as if stricken; his muscles locked tight and all he could do was stare into John's enraged face that, upon Sherlock's lack of response, slid into something far less passionate and much, much more cold. "It's what you always wanted, wasn't it? You've gotten me. All my time. All my attention. There's absolutely no one else in my world but _you_." With as much bitter venom as he could muster, he added, "And are you happy for it?"

Sherlock said not a word in response. He looked away from John's expectant face, though he did not miss the shadowed look of confirmation as he slid back into his seat, hair dripping rain that he did not have the energy to wipe away from where it chilled his skin. His hand shook and he did nothing to still it.

From outside the car, John resolutely refused to let his anger move him. Parting from the car now, even just to blow off steam, was hardly wise. And as much as it must have killed him to stay close to Sherlock then, his anger wasn't worth risking his life. The distance created by the closed door would have to suffice.

To Sherlock the distance never seemed so insurmountable.


End file.
